The Dragon's Blade_Veiled Intentions

by Michael R. Miller

  From Tiviar’s Histories

  Cassandra – Brevia – The Velvet Circle

  CASSANDRA EASED HER way through the gathering crowds by the water’s edge. Balack was making his rounds of the city, Arkus proudly by his side. Today, they were touring along the northern embankment and near the wealthy Velvet Circle. This worked well for Cassandra’s needs, for it drew most people to Balack and left the district quiet. Queen Orrana had acquired a set of black leathers worn by Crownland Hunters for her to wear. Cassandra was now black from boots to shoulder guards, with only her skin and the delicate white trim on the leather showing any other colour. She felt it suited her. Kymethra, however, was not as pleased.

  “This is mighty uncomfortable,” the witch whispered as they skimmed around a group of plump nobles. “It’s all tight and constricting. How can they sleep in this?”

  “I think the idea is you’ll be too tired to care,” Cassandra said. She smiled broadly at a passing couple that were wrapping scarves around each other against the autumn breeze. Once the couple passed, Cassandra let her smile fall. She had to keep up the pretence of a dutiful peacekeeper, but her cheeks already ached from today’s forced grins alone. She was growing real sympathy for Queen Orrana’s unique plight.

  Her plight might become my own soon enough.

  “Did you give Orrana my right measurements?” asked Kymethra.

  “I thought you wanted to help me?” Cassandra said.

  “I do,” said Kymethra. “Doesn’t mean I have to wear something that makes me itch in unflattering places.”

  This can’t all be about the leathers.

  “Are you sure you’re ready to leave him?” Cassandra asked.

  “For the last damn time, yes,” said Kymethra, though her voice was a touch higher than normal. “There’s nothing more that can be done. Brackers is in fine care. All I can add is a bit of soothing magic if he takes a turn, but the fits have calmed now so… Oh, let’s just hunt down the bastards who helped cause this.” She stopped picking at her leathers and settled into a stride beside Cassandra.

  They finally made it through the crowds and into the Velvet Circle proper. Manor after manor rose along the wide paved streets.

  A carriage clopped loudly towards them, likely heading down to the hubbub of Balack’s rally. The horses dropped their leavings along the way; a stain on an otherwise spotless street. It barely had a chance to smell before a team of boys dashed from the nearest manor armed with spades, sloshing buckets, coarse brushes and thick brown gloves. By the time Cassandra and Kymethra passed them the street was clean once more.

  “Remind me again why we are paying Lord Boreac’s manor a visit?” Kymethra asked. “Your father already had it picked clean of anything worthwhile.”

  “That’s what he’s has been told but we have no real idea of how deep Castallan’s networks ran. He needs someone he can trust to hunt Boreac down.”

  “And you’re the best he’s got?” Kymethra said. “I mean no offence, but it seems a little desperate.”

  “You don’t think I can manage it?”

  “I just think this could be dangerous,” said Kymethra. “I didn’t think Arkus would want to put you in harm’s way having only just gotten you back.”

  “He didn’t. I insisted. I find Boreac for him and he won’t push a marriage on me.”

  “Well, at least you know how to use that sword,” Kymethra said.

  “I’m not looking for a reason to use it.”

  Lord Boreac’s manor was easy to find, for it was the one with half its contents spilling out onto its now untended gardens.

  “I swear that one is snoring,” Kymethra said, flicking her eyes towards one of the soldiers posted at the gates. They wore chainmail over simple boiled leather, with short spears that looked fierce enough, but would be no match for a sword in close quarters. They weren’t asleep, Cassandra saw, but they were far from alert.

  “Good day,” Cassandra announced loudly.

  One snapped his head in bemusement at her. “Who are you?”

  “Here to help with the clean out,” Cassandra said. “Captain Horath’s orders.” She’d learned the names of a few key members of the Crownland Hunters, but not much beyond. For these two she hoped nothing more would be required.

  “Horath was it?” said the other guard, a little dimly. “Didn’t he send a message already that we weren’t to let anyone else in?”

  “I dun’ think so, Rob,” said the first guard.

  “Nat, you can’t remember what you ate for breakfast,” said Rob.

  “Course I can,” said Nat. “Bit of watered down porridge, ain’t it? Every bleedin’ day. Not got much choice with them dragons piling up outside the city, taking all our food.”

  “True,” grumbled Rob.

  “Captain Horath made it clear this job was to be done promptly,” Cassandra said. She took a step in between the guards.

  “Hold it right—” but Nat’s words died in his throat. His face glazed over, as did Rob’s. They both looked as though they were supremely contented. “Sure,” Nat said, his voice wrapping luxuriously around the word. “Go along in.”

  “Heh,” giggled Rob. “No issue.”

  Confused but not wanting to question her turn in fortune, Cassandra walked into the estate grounds. About halfway to the front door she turned to check on Kymethra. The witch was right behind her, grimacing and shaking her arm as though she were drying it.

  “What did you do to them?” Cassandra asked.

  “Soothed them,” said Kymethra. “Same as I do to Brackendon when he takes his turns. I hit them with a stronger blast of it to move us along. Dranus but I’m thirsty now.”

  “I thought it was for taking away pain?”

  “Numbs everything,” Kymethra said. “Including thought. Don’t go getting ideas now, it isn’t that strong, just a trick. Those two might not have had a full head put together. I didn’t even have to touch their heads like I normally—” Kymethra stopped suddenly and looked past Cassandra. There was a creaking of a hinge and Cass turned to see the doorway to the estate open ajar, with a thin woman in a simple pale blue apron looking suspiciously out at them.

  “I thought you lot were done?” she said. Her voice gave away that she was a little afraid, trying to cover it up through indignation. “None of us know where he’s gone.”

  “We’re sorry to disturb you,” Cassandra said. “We just need to ask some more questions. Take a final look around.”

  “Can’t get away from you hunters,” the woman mumbled as she pulled back into the manor. Cassandra took that as a cue that she should follow.

  The hallway was bare although signs of wealth were evident from the lighter patches on the wall where paintings or tapestries had been hung, while scratch marks along the oak floor showed where furniture had been roughly dragged outside.

  “Can I take your cloaks?” the woman asked briskly. “I’m still the head of this household after all. No reason I can’t show common courtesy.”

  Cassandra unfastened her own black cloak and handed it over.

  “Thank you, um…”

  “Olive, dear,” the woman said. “Thought they might have passed along our names at least. Aren’t we under investigation and all that?” She took Kymethra’s cloak a little gruffly. “Are you okay?”

  Cassandra wondered that as well. Kymethra was breathing heavily, her cheeks were flush, and she held her right arm tightly against her side.

  “I wouldn’t mind some water,” Kymethra said dryly.

  “Bit hot under those leathers,” Olive said knowingly. “Even in the Boreacs I saw them sweat at times. Come through to the kitchens then and may my cooperation show you that the staff and I have nothing to hide.”

  “Where are the staff?” Cassandra asked. The manor was eerily quiet. Their feet echoed with every step.

  “Keeping to themselves mostly,” said Olive, leading them down the empty hallway. “Since Lord Boreac took off and armed Chevaliers came bursting
in looking for him, everyone has been suspicious of each other. No one wants to be marked a traitor.”

  “King Arkus has offered a general clemency,” Cassandra said.

  “So I’ve heard,” Olive said. She turned into a narrow corridor winding to the back of the house and into the extensive kitchens. It felt cold. Not an oven was on, not a cook in sight. Copper pots and pans were stacked up in the basin. Cold grease and mould scented the air. Olive sighed. “Such an embarrassment. Twenty staff used to work here day and night. Often Lord Boreac threw parties for hundreds at a time. And now this.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” Cassandra said, although she limited her sympathy. This head of the household could be a traitor for all she knew.

  “There’s a jug of water by the basin there,” Olive said to Kymethra. “The mugs are kept—”

  “Won’t be needing a mug,” Kymethra said, darting to the jug and taking great draughts straight from it. Olive looked startled.

  “She’s a good bet for drinking games at the station,” Cassandra said. “Now, I wonder if I might begin.”

  “Fine, fine,” Olive said. She went to sit down at the servants’ rather dirty table and waited expectantly. Cassandra sat opposite her and pushed a plate of mouldy cheese away.

  “As head of the household, you must have known Lord Boreac well?” Cassandra asked.

  “Well enough,” Olive said. “Five years of service, after all. I’ve already gone through this.”

  “Please, just answer the questions,” Cassandra said. “So, was there ever any odd behaviour?”

  “Only in hindsight, I suppose,” Olive said. “Back in the spring, a messenger came all flustered, talking about some woman named Morwen over and over. Boreac told him to be quiet, ushered him into his study, then dismissed me. He kept everyone out of his study for hours. After that, he was always a little more on edge, but I would never have guessed he was part of some conspiracy against the throne.”

  “Morwen you said, not Captain Morwen of the Golden Crescent Hunters?”

  “Might be,” Olive said. “He got cross when I asked.”

  That was very interesting news to Cassandra. What was it she had heard one day in Val’tarra? Some burly huntress had claimed that Morwen’s body had been found with both human and spectre corpses around it. Morwen had been concerned about a strange black powder being found in shipments that were meant to be fruit from the fairies. Why was Boreac so interested in that?

  “Is that the only time you saw him concerned?” Cassandra asked. Olive nodded, looking annoyed already. “How was he behaving while his lands were under attack from Castallan’s demons for almost a year?”

  “They were — what?” Olive asked, suddenly alert.

  “You didn’t know?” Cassandra asked.

  “None of you lot told me that before,” Olive said, sounding frightened. “Tell me. What happened?”

  “Why is that such a concern to y—”

  “Just tell me.”

  “Okay,” Cassandra said. “The Boreac Mountains are deserted. Its people now are either refugees or dead.”

  “Dead?” Olive mouthed silently. She ran her bony hands through her thinning hair.

  “No one really knew,” Kymethra said, coming to join them at the table. “Not up in the capital anyway. Boreac might have been in on it himself if he’d thrown in with Castallan.”

  “But see this,” Olive said, getting a flyer out of her pocket. “This Balack of the Boreac Mountains. This ‘Hero of the Bastion’, I used to take care of him back when I lived there. It can’t be so bad. Or is this all some lie?” She looked desperate as she flung the paper down. It landed upside down and Cassandra reached for it, turning it back up. She had seen these flyers all around the city, proclaiming in large thick print to:

  Join Balack, the Hero of the Bastion! Come dockside to hear the story of the great battle in the south where humanity triumphed when dragons failed!

  Down in the bottom corner was a picture of a black quill dripping ink onto the words: Tarquill Prints.

  “It’s no lie,” Cassandra said. Though the real hero is lying broken and deranged in the palace. She placed a hand on Kymethra’s arm and caught her eye to prevent her saying anything. We mustn’t seem to know too much.

  “You raised the Hero of the Bastion?” Cassandra said, feigning awe. She must know the others too. Darnuir, Cosmo, all of them.

  “It was years ago,” Olive said, her hardened demeanour crumbling by the second. “I’d doubt he’d remember me. Don’t think I’ll be able to help you win any favours or gain an introduction. Although, it would be good to see someone from the Boreacs again. My sister Grace is still there… or she was still there. If all this has happened — Oh, I should have known something wasn’t right when her letters stopped; but then I knew she had a baby on the way, and I was so busy here…” she rambled.

  The mention of Grace caused another look to pass between Cassandra and Kymethra, an unspoken agreement that there would be no need to mention her death to Olive. Not here and now, at any rate.

  “This must be distressing for you,” Cassandra said, interrupting Olive in full flow.

  Olive sniffed. “It’s just another thing to worry about.”

  “I can only imagine,” Cassandra said. “Look, if you answer my questions, I’ll make enquiries about your sister.”

  “Would you?” Olive said. “That’s very kind, dear. Very well. Go ahead.”

  “We’ll try not to be too long,” Cassandra said. She smiled encouragingly at Olive before starting. “We’re obviously interested in any close associates he might have had, people who might be harbouring him. Was there any place Lord Boreac might visit frequently? Friends in the city or country who he might have gone to?”

  “Lord Boreac preferred to play host rather than be a guest,” Olive said. “He rarely left the city. Said his back hurt too much in someone else’s bed. Lord Annandale would visit when he came to the capital, but we know why that is now. The only other person who came around regularly was that hunter. Tall, sinewy fellow. Scythe, I think.”

  “Scythe?” Cassandra and Kymethra said together.

  Olive was taken aback. “Is he a bloody traitor too?”

  “I’m afraid we can’t discuss that,” Kymethra said.

  “So, he was then,” Olive said. “Curse those men. I built up a reputation, and now no one will hire me. What a waste.”

  “I understand this is frustrating for you,” Cassandra said, hoping to keep Olive focused. “But the quicker we get through this the quicker we’ll leave you be.”

  “Leave me be all on my own. A big empty house and nothing to do anymore,” Olive moaned.

  Cassandra pressed on. “When was the last time you saw Scythe?”

  “Hmm, oh would’ve been when Captain Tael stopped by. About a year ago.” The name wasn’t familiar to Cassandra, though she assumed this Tael had been the Boreac Captain before Scythe. “Yes, that was it,” Olive continued. “Tael was here, asking Boreac for more hunters, and I guess now I know the reason for that too. Actually, something odd did happen that night.”

  “To whom?” Cassandra asked.

  “To me,” Olive said. “That Scythe fellow came looking for me, to talk to me. He’d never so much as said more than his food and drink order before.”

  “Why?” Cassandra said.

  “Just to talk,” Olive said. “Nothing in particular, just a bit about me, where I came from, my time in the Boreacs. That sort of thing.”

  “No specifics?” Cassandra asked.

  Olive sighed. “Look it was nearly a year ago, but I suppose he kept trying to worm conversation back to the children I took care of with Grace – the boys in particular, and then the youngest. I didn’t know why he was so interested in Balack and Darnuir, but there you go. Well, look what Balack turned out to be, eh.”

  Cassandra stared at Olive, trying not to look too incredulous or give anything away.

  Lord Boreac really did a job of ke
eping news from you, didn’t he?

  “Anything more?” Cassandra asked.

  “No, that was it. Never saw the man again. Probably dead now I imagine,” Olive added. There was a stilted moment of protracted silence during which faint taps and creaks echoed overhead. Olive looked up. “That’ll be Milly, the maid. Pacing around again poor lamb. She only started here a month before all this horribleness.”

  “Unfortunate timing,” Kymethra said.

  “Will you be needing to speak to the staff as well?” Olive asked.

  “It may not be necessary,” Cassandra said. “I’m sure they have been through enough.” Olive pursed her lips and nodded approvingly. “However, there is one last thing. When Lord Boreac fled, was he in a hurry and what did he take with him?”

  “I wouldn’t have known he was leaving for good the way he just rushed out the door,” Olive said. “He got a letter I remember, took it upstairs. Next thing I knew he was bolting out the door. Barely had his evening cloak strapped on. Went without even a goodbye.” She sounded hurt at the memory.

  Olive had called her time here a waste and Cassandra couldn’t help but agree.

  At least I have a way out. A way I can make things better. But she won’t be able to bring back the dead.

  “I think that will be all for now,” Cassandra said. She’d gotten enough out of Olive to be going on with. “Perhaps we could inspect Lord Boreac’s study?”

  “Your lot already took everything away,” Olive said, but she got to her feet all the same.

  Cassandra shrugged. “Captain’s orders.” She rose too, as did Kymethra, and they followed Olive out of the kitchen to a servants’ staircase hidden away from the main hallway. They climbed to the second floor where the corridor sliced a neat row of rooms in two. It was as bare as the hallway downstairs and a little dusty. As they walked, one of the room’s occupants poked his head out from behind the doorframe; an old man, possibly in his sixties with a white moustache.

  “Back in Perkins,” Olive said. “They won’t be long.” She shooed at him as though he was some unwanted dog. The old man pulled back behind the door and closed it with a click. “The butler,” Olive muttered. “Of all of them, I’d trust him the least.”