Cadfael looked at him now, but blankly, his focus fading out. “He could fit quite a lot of men in this fortress, but only a handful compared to those he houses in the Citadel. He wouldn’t be able to care about Shinsei’s protection—he’d be too busy worrying about his own. And within the confines of this place…” He nestled one fist inside the other, gripping it so hard his fingers shook. “This way, I could…”
Eirnwin stared at him for a long moment before speaking. “This quest of yours … you wish to kill the commander?”
“Aye,” Cadfael said. “And I will, one way or another.”
Eirnwin turned to Kel. “Your Grace, assassinating Elgar’s favorite would be…”
Kel shrugged. “What, it would make him angry? He won’t leave us in peace no matter how nice we are to him, so why should we care whether he likes us or not? He can’t threaten us with anything worse than he’s already plotting—our destruction, and the destruction of Reglay.”
“Your Grace, I am sure I have taught you that murdering a guest under one’s roof is considered one of the highest forms of treachery? It might seem a clever stratagem, but the damage to your reputation—”
“It wouldn’t have anything to do with me,” Kel said. “He’d be my guest, true, but he wouldn’t be Cadfael’s. And Cadfael won’t follow my orders, he said so himself.”
“If Elgar demands my head for it, that’s fine,” Cadfael said. “As long as I can kill Shinsei, I don’t care about the rest.”
“Very well,” Eirnwin said, throwing up his hands. “Very well, Your Grace. I will not argue the point further.” He rounded on Cadfael. “And you? If we allow you to do this thing, you will pledge your fealty to the king?”
Cadfael hesitated, tracing the line of his scar up and down. “I cannot pledge my obedience,” he said at last, to Kel instead of Eirnwin. “It is too dangerous for a man like me to make such a promise. But I will remain at your side, and make sure you never come to harm. However, if Elgar does not come to this castle, or if he comes without Shinsei, then after your coronation, I wish to leave, and ask that you not trouble me again.”
Kel bowed his head. “That’s fair. We’ll settle it after my coronation, one way or another.”
“Good.” He turned on his heel. “I should see whether there are any rooms fit to sleep in in this place.”
But he did not leave right away, and then Alessa said, “Do you really wish to die after you get your revenge?”
He did not turn to look at her. “I don’t wish to die. I just don’t care.”
“You have nothing to live for?”
“I did,” he said. “One thing, and nothing else. Revenge is all I can give her now, but after that, what can I do for her? If it were possible for me to live as she would have, I would do that. But I have none of that fire in me.”
After he had gone, Kel took Lessa’s hand. “What do you think? Do you not trust him?”
She squeezed his fingers, then let him go so he could adjust his grip on the crutches. “I trust him. I just … I don’t know if I quite like him.”
“What do you mean?” Kel asked. “He’s so strong, and he’s always been direct with us.…”
“He has,” Lessa agreed. “He just seems so … empty, as if he rings hollow. He saved us, certainly, but he let Herren die dispassionately enough. I suppose I don’t know what to make of a man with so few convictions of his own.”
That was right, Kel realized: Cadfael didn’t seem to believe in anything, one way or the other. His sister had probably done the believing for both of them. Kel wished he could have met her.
“I don’t think he’ll harm us, at least,” Eirnwin said. “It was lucky he took a liking to the two of you.”
It was Lessa’s resemblance he took a liking to, Kel didn’t say, and my being a brother who wanted to protect her. But his being a king had displeased Cadfael, and he wondered if there were any other pitfalls to the man’s regard.
“Come on,” he said. “We’ve got a lot of work to do before this place’ll be fit for guests, and Eirnwin did say he wanted to hold my coronation as soon as possible. We’ll need to send word back to Second Hearth, and in the meantime we can start tidying up ourselves.”
“I doubt you’ll make a particularly apt chambermaid, Your Grace.” Eirnwin smiled. “Though I would dearly love to see you try.”
* * *
Had they been back in Sheath, the arrival of a message that made Braddock’s face darken so severely would have been cause for worry. But they were not in Sheath, and the truth, no matter how Morgan tried to hide it, was that she doubted she could stay here another week, no matter how hospitable Braddock’s old friend had been. Perhaps Roger and the others would’ve imagined she’d be eager for the chance to rest, after her incessant labors at the Dragon’s Head—perhaps she herself would even have thought so, before. But sitting here idle day after day while their coin slowly dwindled was more than she could stand. She needed a change, and if this mysterious message portended such, she couldn’t regret its arrival.
The message had come for Vash, not Braddock, yet the two of them had been discussing it for what must surely have been an hour by now, leaving Morgan to fend for herself. She walked a vague circle around the house, peering southward every time she made another turn; Vash had told her that the Gods’ Curse was a mere handful of leagues away, but though the ground was fairly flat, the horizon was too indistinct for her to make anything out. It was warmer this far south, despite the persistent clouds that hovered overhead, but not unpleasantly so. The view, however, couldn’t help but be discouraging, what with the dim light and the dusty plains covered with scrubby, faded grass.
Braddock came out at last, looking even more disgruntled than usual. “Sorry about that,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. “And sorry about, ah, what I’m about to say.”
“Well, you haven’t said it yet,” Morgan replied. “Why don’t you start by telling me what Vash’s correspondence has to do with you?”
He nodded slowly. “I know the man who sent that message—he was my friend as well as Vash’s, from our mercenary days.”
Morgan raised an eyebrow. “I thought you always said the mercenary business wasn’t the right place to make friends. Here are two of yours in as many weeks.”
Braddock scowled at that, but at the ground, not at her. “Well, I can promise you that’s all you’ll meet. The rest are dead.”
“The rest of your friends?”
“The rest of that company.” He finally looked up. “We made sure of that.”
Morgan wasn’t sure what to say to that. Were congratulations appropriate, or condolences?
Before she could do more than draw a breath, Braddock spoke again. “It was, ah … We didn’t plan it like that. I suppose the best way to explain it is to say that after so much time spent routing bandits and suchlike, the rest of our fellows began to act far too much like them for our tastes. Then one day we liberated this tiny little settlement, like we’d done dozens of times before. Only the rest of ’em decided they’d rather have it for themselves—and all its coin, and all its women. You don’t reason with men when their blood’s up like that, not unless you want to get yourself killed. So … Vash and Nasser and I struck first. That’s why … well, that’s why I never had quite the same taste for sellswording after that.”
At first she could only stare at him. “That’s … You ought to’ve said.”
“Well, I didn’t. It’s not something I like to talk about.”
Morgan shook her head. “I mean it was … noble, or something like it.”
He laughed. “Or something is right.”
She could tell he wanted her to change the subject, so she asked, “It’s this Nasser who sent the message, then?”
“Aye, from Issamira.”
“But you and Vash don’t agree on what’s to be done about it.”
“Aye. Nasser’s in trouble, is about the gist of it, and he thought to call on someone he could
trust. Vash may live on the wrong side of the Curse now, but he’s Issamiri born and bred—no doubt Nasser thought his experience would be welcome. Problem is, Vash’s experience is just the issue—he ran afoul of the law back home all those years ago, and he’s afraid to go back lest somebody recognize him. I told him no one’s going to mind about it now, but he won’t listen.”
“So he’s not going to go help Nasser,” Morgan guessed.
Braddock scowled. “I did all I could think of to convince him. I told him he owed Nasser, but he just figures Nasser owes him just as much, and filled my ears with how he was already doing enough for me.” He rubbed at his face. “Vash is all right, but Nasser’s a good man—or as close to one as I’ve ever known, and there aren’t many would get me to say that. I’ve never known him to be a man who needs help—and certainly not one to ask for it. So the fact that he is asking for it has me more than a little worried. He has a family, and the letter wasn’t clear about where they are … there are so many things that could…” He cleared his throat. “So, ah … fact of it is, I told Vash I’d go instead. Wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I didn’t.”
“All right,” Morgan said.
That clearly hadn’t been what he was expecting. “Oh. Well. So Vash has already said he doesn’t mind if you stay here—”
“Oh, no, no, no,” Morgan said, before he could get any further. “I’ve stayed here quite long enough, thank you. I miss Sheath, and I miss my damned tavern, but even if I can’t get back to them yet, there is quite simply no chance in hell that I will lie about here on the godsforsaken backside of the continent with Vash while you run right into the middle of whatever trouble is waiting in Issamira.” When he still looked confused, she added, “I’m going with you, you idiot.”
He shook his head. “I don’t think that’s wise.”
“I don’t care whether it’s wise or not. I am not staying here without you—I can hardly stand to stay here with you. And I’m tired of just waiting for something to happen. If there’s something you have to do, then at least I can help you, and that’s something.”
Braddock looked like he was going to continue the argument, but then he abruptly gave up, and for a moment she almost thought he would smile. “I ought to’ve known you were going to say something like that.”
“Yes, you really should have,” Morgan agreed. “Now perhaps you ought to tell me what exactly this friend of yours needs us to do?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Tom said every good thief had a sense for things, without ever having to be told. They could hear trouble coming from leagues away, or sniff out treasure in the deepest and dirtiest pit. Marceline had wanted proof she’d had such a talent all her life, but now for the first time she wished she didn’t. For if it were her thief’s sense that was to blame, the fact that she’d been driven to do nothing but practice knife-throwing for the past three days couldn’t be good.
She’d thought things had quieted down: the rumors flowing through Sheath had become a sight less fantastical, and even Tom seemed calmer, if as stubborn as ever. But all she had to do was take one look at Roger’s face and she felt her spirits sink again—if anyone had a thief’s sense, Roger did, and he looked as low as she’d ever seen him.
He’d taken to haunting the Dragon’s Head like it was his new home, but he never told her anything about when Morgan was coming back. There were rumors about that she and Braddock had run afoul of the law at last, and had to flee Sheath for good. Although Roger always scoffed at that, he never offered anything in its place. Marceline had to admit she found it unlikely—she’d scarcely ever seen someone more dedicated to the straight and narrow than Morgan. But she also knew Morgan loved the Dragon’s Head, no matter how she might complain. What could compel her to leave it for so long, if not just the kind of trouble everyone whispered about?
She hadn’t expected any enlightenment from Roger, and it was just as well—he wasn’t providing any. “Go away, monkey,” he said wearily, resting his chin atop his crossed hands, which in turn were resting on the bar. “There’s nothing here for you.”
Marceline scowled at him. “You look like a child.”
“And you look like something that crawled out of the gutter, but at least I’ve seen better days.”
She was about to snap out a retort when she caught sight of a scrap of parchment pinned beneath his elbow. “What’s that?” she asked, tilting her head to try for a better look at it. There wasn’t any writing on it, but she could just make out the edge of something—a drawing or symbol, perhaps?
Roger, naturally, started back, snatching up the parchment and shoving it into his pocket. “None of your business and none of your business, thank you. Have any other questions I can refrain from answering?”
Marceline gritted her teeth, trying to keep her voice from growing shrill. “What is wrong with you? I haven’t seen you in a sulk like this since … well, since ever.” She considered it. “Maybe since the last time you lost a bet with Tom.”
He groaned. “Monkey, that is not what I need to be thinking about right now.”
“Whatever you are thinking about, it’s clearly not helping your mood any better.”
“Can you blame me? Here I am, minding my own like always, just hoping to do a turn or two for a friend here and there, and the whole blasted lot of them are running about like chickens with their heads hacked off, getting into one scrape after another before I’ve even had time to look round. This could all be so much simpler than they’re making it, but they just won’t see that.” He dragged a hand down his face. “Deinol I expect to have no sense, but to drag the boy into his madness! And now Lucius is gone too, the gods only know what Morgan and Braddock are doing or when they’ll decide to come back, and I can’t even solve one bloody mystery! At this point I’ve half a mind to shut myself up with a case of liquor and act like your old man.”
She ignored that. “A mystery? Is that what that paper’s about?”
The way he scowled was proof of how important it was. Roger loved to dangle his secrets just out of reach, lest anyone forget how clever he was. If he didn’t want to even tease her about that scrap of parchment, it was because it was a lot more important, and he was a lot further from solving it, than he’d ever let her know.
“You see,” she said, “it’s times like these when you could use an apprentice.”
He snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous. What could you ever do?”
“Well, how can I know that when I don’t even know what it is? Give it here a moment, and then we’ll see.”
He didn’t move. “Monkey, don’t make a fool of yourself. There’s nothing worth doing you could do that I can’t, and that’s a fact.”
“Oh, is that right?” She was angry enough to stamp her foot right through the floor; she was angry enough to tear half his hair out. But he’d never take her seriously if she raged at him, so she did her best to keep her voice level. And if her fists were clenched, well, it wasn’t as if he could see them. “I bet you I could,” she said. “I bet you I could find out something you never dreamed of, and you’d be left begging me to tell you.”
He laughed, but it was harder than normal, with an edge of bitterness. “I wish you could! I’m in the mood to hear something fantastical these days.”
“I’ll do it,” Marceline insisted. “I will. And then you’ll have to take me as your apprentice, because you’ll be afraid I’ll get better than you all on my own.”
“Maybe I would, at that,” Roger said, slumping over the bar. “But you’ll never manage it.” There was no grin, so she knew he wasn’t trying to bait her; he was just saying what he thought was true. That made it even worse.
“You’ll see soon enough,” she snapped, though he barely even looked up. She stalked over to the door, about to slam it as hard as she could and get his attention that way. But then she remembered that it wasn’t Roger’s tavern; it was Morgan’s, and wherever she was, she still loved it. So she shut the door as c
arefully as she could, the hinges barely creaking as she slipped it closed.
* * *
Tom set his tankard down on the table with an audible clunk and a sloshing sound—which was notable in itself, as he never liked to stop when there was any left. “Well, girl,” he said, “I expect you’d better come out with it. It’s ruining my evening, and any chance I have to drink in peace.”
Marceline sniffed. “You’d finish that ale if Elgar had his whole guard charging through here. And I have nothing to say to you.”
“You do, or you’d be off elsewhere with your sulking. Out with it, I say. What’s got you in such a snit?”
It wasn’t a snit. Ugh, he was such an impossible old louse. “You wouldn’t understand,” Marceline said, folding her arms.
He slung an arm over the back of his chair. “Give an old man his due, at least. I’ve been putting up with your moods for quite some time now.”
“If you want to talk about moods—” Marceline bit her tongue, and only barely resisted the urge to slam her hands down on the table. “I’m angry because … I want to know things,” she said. “I’m as good a pickpocket as there is in this city—even you admit that. My lockpicking’s fine enough, and even if my knife skills need … more practice, the point of proper thieving is that it shouldn’t come to blows in the first place. So that’s all fine, and I can hold my head up all right among my own kind. But it’s different with you and Roger, because you can find things out that nobody else can—sometimes it seems like you can pluck secrets out of the air. And that’s what I want to do, because lately I’ve been feeling like all those secrets are just rushing past me all the time, and I can never grab hold of them.”
Tom kept drinking for several moments in silence, but she knew he was considering it. “Well,” he said, “you know you’d be welcome to anything I know, if you ever really had need of it. You just couldn’t go bandying it about everywhere, but I expect you’ve learned how to keep your mouth shut by now.”
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