Weight of the Crown

by A. C. Cobble

  Ben and his friends offered condolences, but that was all they had to give.

  When the young man departed, Rhys muttered, “I’d do anything to get out of these damn stone hallways. I need the open air, or at least, an alehouse.”

  “They have ale in the mess hall,” mentioned Amelie.

  “It’s not the same,” grumbled Rhys. “Have you even seen that sour-faced old man who serves it? You’d think a fortress as important as the Citadel would have a few proper serving wenches, but no, they’ve got a man that is one missed meal away from being a skeleton.”

  “I think you’re better off away from the serving wenches,” remarked Prem crisply.

  “Why would I be better away from—”

  Prem crossed her arms and tilted her head slightly. Rhys snapped his mouth shut and sat back, crossing his arms as well.

  “We need to find out what is happening here,” said Amelie, ignoring the rogue and the former guardian.

  “We need to get out of here on the first vessel to Fabrizo,” retorted Ben.

  Amelie shook her head slowly. “You’re right. We shouldn’t delay, but our goal is to stop the war, right? Not necessarily to catch up with Saala. That is just the means we’re trying to achieve our end with.”

  “You think we should encourage this dissent?” questioned Ben. “The Alliance’s forces fighting amongst themselves isn’t all that much better than fighting the Coalition, is it? We mean to stop all unnecessary bloodshed.”

  “It’s not much better,” agreed Amelie. “That’s not what I meant. A dozen assassinations in a few months… what if one of them is successful? Saala and Brinn are the only leaders in Whitehall who will listen to us instead of clapping us in irons. If we can help them, we improve that trust.”

  Ben scratched at the scar the undead mage Eldred had left on his arm.

  “Think about it this way,” continued Amelie. “If we mean to stop the war, Saala is our best chance, and he’s under threat. If he and Brinn are killed, where does that leave us? We save him, and we assure ourselves an open ear. If we don’t save him, and the assassins are successful, it might spell the end of our mission.”

  “She’s not wrong,” concluded Rhys.

  “But we’re stuck here,” muttered Ben. “We can’t do anything locked up in the lower floors of the Citadel. None of the highborn in Whitehall are down here, and none of the military men we need to talk to are accessible.”

  “Rhys?” asked Amelie. “How many assassins are there that would take a job to kill a king?”

  “Successfully? Just a few,” responded the rogue. “That wasn’t who attacked last night. Killing a man that powerful and well protected is rare business. The opportunities do not come along often, and the risks are high. Like Brinn said, Lord Jason is one. I’m another. There was a man named Humboldt who used to be in that strata of business, but no one’s seen him… It doesn’t matter. It’s a safe assumption that Jason was the one who murdered King Argren. The Black Knife has the motive and the talent.”

  “How many would take a job to kill a general even if they didn’t have the skill to pull it off?”

  Rhys frowned. “There could be any number of bad assassins…”

  “Do you know any personally?” pressed Amelie. “Would you recognize some of them or understand their methodology? Surely, they must have some skill if they’re hired to kill a general. How would you go about hiring someone like that?”

  Rhys blinked, understanding dawning slowly. “You want me to work with Brinn and figure out who these assassins are?”

  “If we find them, we might be able to find who is hiring them. If we find who is hiring them…”

  5

  To Catch One, Be One

  “You want to help me how?” asked Brinn, suspicion etched on his face.

  “I’ll find out who is sending these assassins if you let me,” said Rhys.

  He was sitting across from General Brinn, Captain Seth, and the head of the Citadel’s guard, Commander Blevin. Ben’s friends sat beside Rhys, trying to look supportive.

  Commander Blevin rubbed a finger on his bright red nose and then questioned, “And why do you think you could help us do that? I have five hundred men who are doing nothing but searching for clues and securing against future attempts. In case you haven’t heard, we’ve been quite successful since Argren was killed.”

  “Successful at thwarting the attacks,” retorted Ben, struggling not to think of Farview’s tavern owner, Blevin Beerman, every time he looked at the guard commander. It was quite possible, thought Ben, the two were somehow related. Shaking himself, he continued, “You don’t know who’s sending the assassins, do you?”

  Putting his hands on the table, palms down, Blevin leaned forward. “Again I’ll ask, why do you think you can do a better job than me?”

  Ben looked at General Brinn. He held his gaze, ignoring the guard commander. “Believe me when I tell you that Rhys can do this.”

  Commander Blevin turned to his superior. “Really, just because this boy is acquainted with King Saala—”

  “You don’t know who the rest of them are, do you?” interrupted Brinn.

  Blevin blinked.

  “That’s probably for the best,” continued the general, glancing around the group before speaking again. “You are released from custody and will be given leave to move about as necessary. I will assign you soldiers and assistants to smooth interactions with Citadel staff. At all times, you will be under the watch of Captain Seth. He will report to me daily, and if he loses track of you, or I do not hear from him, I will be very disappointed. Agreed?”

  Ben nodded.

  “Wait,” said Seth, raising a hand.

  Brinn looked at him.

  “You want me to monitor them while they, uh, stalk assassins?”

  “They’ll need someone in authority to make sure they can get where they need to go and do what they need to do. It’s not going to be me, and we don’t have many other people we can trust.”

  Rhys leaned over the table and slapped Seth on the shoulder. “You’ll be fine.”

  Rhys was their expert on assassins, and Prem volunteered to stay in his shadow and watch his back as he delved into that dark world. Amelie and Lady Towaal were skilled politicians, and they would study the relationships between the highborn families to see if they could uncover any clues as to who might be hiring the blades. As General Brinn’s right hand man, Seth knew the ins and outs of the military factions and would look for clues there. Ben offered to accompany him as he strolled through the barracks, but the captain declined. He said Ben would be out of place. Any soldier, friend or foe, would immediately button up in the presence of a stranger.

  Sighing, Ben tilted back his chair and sipped morosely at his ale. On the other side of the table, Amelie and Towaal were poring over sheets of notes, family trees, and other scribblings which he’d glanced at and then quickly lost interest in. Understanding the tenuous connections that formed the highborn webs of power was completely outside of Ben’s experience, and he wasn’t in a hurry to get acquainted with the minutia.

  The women ignored him as he rocked his chair back and forth on its rear two legs, his boot on the edge of the table to balance him.

  He sipped the ale again. A light, surprisingly crisp lager. It tasted clean on the palate and had little of the alcoholic burn that would make his head swim by dinner. A suitable ale to sip on while watching your friends work.

  He finished his mug, barely hearing Amelie muttering about how a betrothal between two powerful houses had recently been broken and whether that offered any clues. Ben let the chair fall onto all four legs. He stood and shuffled over to the small ale keg they’d commandeered from the mess hall.

  It was empty.

  Grumbling, Ben set down his tankard and lifted the ale barrel. He turned to tell Amelie he was going for a refill, and then thought better of it. She was engrossed with her work, and interrupting her to say he was getting another barrel of ale in
the middle of the day suddenly seemed a bad idea. Instead, he quietly skirted around the paper-covered table and slipped out the door.

  He strode down the hallway, the small keg tucked under his arm. At the end of the hall, a guard nodded at him and then glanced at the keg. Grumbling to himself, Ben kept going, resisting the urge to explain that Rhys had drank most of it the night before. Ben had only had two or three ales so far that morning.

  Finally, after several more chastising looks, he made it into the mess hall. Prior to the midday meal, it was almost empty with only a handful of scullions clustered around a table in the back. The sour-faced barman was behind the bar, hunched over, overseeing his domain. As far as Ben could tell, the man never left. The barman barely looked up as Ben made it across the wide room and set the empty keg on top of the counter.

  “Empty already?” croaked the barman, his voice sounding as near death as his face looked.

  “My friend drank a lot last night,” muttered Ben.

  “Sure, sure,” rasped the barman. He levered himself off his stool and shambled toward a door behind the bar. He gestured for Ben to follow. “If you’re going to go through them so quickly, you can haul it out of storage yourself. They don’t pay me enough to be fetchin’ a keg a day for you.”

  “I understand,” said Ben, darting after the skeletal fellow.

  The storage room was lit by the open door and a filthy window at the other end. The sparse light illuminated row after row, keg after keg of ales, wines, and spirits.

  Ben whistled softly as he eyed the stores.

  The barman glanced back at Ben. Noticing his awed expression, he explained, “They bought all this for a big gala King Argren threw about a year back, but them highborn drank the fancy bubbly wine. They don’t like ale, you know, so we got enough left down here to float a ship.”

  “Huh,” said Ben, stooping to look at a keg on the bottom of a rack. It was coated in a thin layer of dust, which he wiped away to reveal a red stamp at the end of the barrel. “This ale looks to be from the South Continent, maybe nine years old if I’m reading this right?”

  The barman grunted. “Aye, there was some a bit older than the gala.”

  “You’re a collector, aren’t you?” asked Ben, standing to look at the old man.

  The barman smirked. “Why not? Most people will drink anything, but a good ale is just as fine as a good wine, if you ask me.”

  “Indeed,” agreed Ben. “I like a good ale, too. What’s the best barrel you’ve got?”

  The old man frowned at him.

  “Maybe not the best,” allowed Ben. “What’s a good one that you recommend and are willing to part with?”

  “Not that South Continent stuff,” rasped the man, turning to go deeper into the storage room. “It’ll probably sit there another nine years ‘less those diplomats fancy another barrel.”

  “Diplomats?” asked Ben. “The emissary is here?”

  The barman blinked at him. “Emissary?”

  “The emissary from the South Continent,” explained Ben. “She was supposed to arrive any day now, but I haven’t had word she is here.”

  The old man shook his head. “Naw, these folk been here for at least a month. Arrived shortly before the king started commandeering all the big sailing ships. Not sure what they were up to, but they’re stuck now, just like everyone else. The only boats big enough to make it across the South Sea are headed to Fabrizo, full’a soldiers and supplies.”

  “Interesting,” responded Ben, turning and pretending to study more of the stamps on the barrels. Diplomats in the Citadel a month. The timing fit.

  The old man tapped a bony finger against a barrel by his shoulder. “I recommend you take a sip of this one.”

  “What is it?” asked Ben, coming close to peer at the end of the barrel. There was no stamp on it.

  “Fella down below in the city makes it. Some of the best ale I’ve ever tasted.”

  “Sounds up my alley then,” remarked Ben, a grin on his face. He reached for the barrel and then paused. Leaning to the side, he looked over the old man’s shoulder at a barrel behind him.

  “That one there is from the City, if you get the distinction. Good stuff and rare, too,” said the man. “The brewery shut down about a year ago. It’s hard to tuck into one like that when you don’t know when you’ll get another sip. Know what I mean?”

  “I do know,” said Ben, his eyes fixed on the barrel.

  “You want to try it?” asked the old man, moving out of Ben’s way. “Maybe we could share a draught. Normally, I wouldn’t mention a barrel like that, but for a fellow connoisseur…”

  Ben shook his head. “I think I’ve had it before. I’ll try this other instead.”

  The old man shrugged, and Ben gripped the sides of the barrel the man had first recommended. He wiggled it to make sure it was loose and then hefted it off the rack. It was heavy, and he took a step back when it was free of the support. He smiled when he heard the familiar slosh of the liquid inside. For a moment, he was transported to behind the timber mill in Farview, to when he would lift a freshly brewed barrel for the Buckhorn Tavern.

  “Let me know what you think, will you?” asked the old man.

  “Of course,” agreed Ben, making his way out of the dim storage room. He glanced back. “These diplomats you mentioned, can you tell me anything else about them? Maybe they come to the mess hall at a certain time each evening?”

  The old man scratched at the bristly stubble that poked out of his chin. “Well, it’s a bit strange, but they don’t come to the mess hall. Don’t see ‘em around often at all, really. I know they’re still there cause my daughter is one of the chamber maids. They got the whole north wing of the second floor, and she cleans their rooms when they let her. She was complaining to me about it cause the mistress was after her to get busy, but what’s she supposed to do if they don’t let her in? She says they got a pretty little blond thing that must do their cleaning. I saw the blond once, and that kind’a girl ain’t made for cleaning. It’s a shame if those diplomats are letting her work a broom instead of the bedroom.”

  “Odd,” said Ben. “Maybe they’ve got some strange customs down south and don’t want anyone to know about it? Rumors are getting started over all kinds of silly things these days.”

  “That’s true,” grunted the barman, taking his place back on the stool.

  Ben hefted the keg onto his shoulder and made his way back to the room.

  “The north wing of the second floor?” asked Rhys, fingers drumming on the table.

  “That’s what the barman said,” replied Ben.

  Rhys raised his ale mug and took a long sip. “The same barman who recommended this?”

  Ben nodded.

  Rhys closed his eyes. “I think we should trust his judgement.”

  Amelie snorted.

  The rogue’s eyes flicked back open. “In all seriousness, it is a good tip, and we should look into it. Diplomats from the South Continent acting strange, hiding in their rooms… It certainly sounds suspicious, and the timing is right.”

  “Would assassins check in with the seneschal and get rooms?” questioned Prem.

  Rhys shrugged. “Assassins wouldn’t, but if they were working with someone on the inside, that person could have arranged it.”

  “Then why are they still here?” pressed Prem. “Assassins would either strike and fail or succeed and then leave, right? They’re not going to stay around for a month after the initial attack.”

  “The barman said they were stuck here,” explained Ben, “unable to get passage back to the South Continent because Saala seized all of the large sea-going vessels. It’s the same reason we’re stuck here, so it makes a little bit of sense, though, I’m not sure why they wouldn’t flee landward.”

  Shaking her head, Amelie commented, “Real diplomats would have their own vessel. The emperor would send them on one of the man-o-wars in his fleet. Highborn from a minor house or merchants would make more sense. You’re s
ure they’re diplomats?”

  Ben shrugged. “That’s what the man said. I’ll track down Seth and ask him to find out what he can.”

  “In the meantime, we’ll do some snooping around their rooms,” said Rhys.

  “What if they catch you?” asked Prem.

  “I wasn’t planning to get caught,” replied the rogue, “but if I am, we have the protection of General Brinn. We can do whatever we want.”

  “I’m not sure he’d agree with that,” advised Ben.

  Rhys waved a hand dismissively.

  “Have you found anything interesting?” Ben asked, turning to Towaal and Amelie.

  The mage shook her head. “The bloodlines of the highborn in Whitehall are a confusing mess. They intertwine, branch off, and then come back together. Amongst the six most powerful families, each one of them is connected to others by marriage and children. It’s hard to imagine any of them could act against the others without disrupting those ties. When it comes to highborn, family ties are more important than anything.”

  “I understand now why no one was in position to take the throne, and they ended up elevating their general,” added Amelie. “Whitehall’s families are an incestuous spiderweb. It’s been a hundred years since any of them brought in fresh blood.”

  “So, you think they’re all working together?” asked Ben.

  Towaal pursed her lips. “That doesn’t really make sense either because if they were to overthrow Saala, then only one of them would gain the throne. I see no reason the others would permanently raise a family above their own, and I see no levers that could be pulled to convince them.”