Heir to the Raven (The Pierced Veil, #1)

by J. Wesley Bush

  A firm hand jostled her awake much too soon the next morning. Larissa cracked open her eyes to find Kaan’s dour face scowling at her. “Up, little one. Lockridge has called the Council to chamber and Magus wants you to attend.”

  Larissa visited the garderobe, then washed up with the pail of fresh water by the bed. Choosing a dress was easy, as all of them were made from the same russet wool. Magus came for her soon after, and she wolfed down a bite of bread and cheese on their way to Donation Castle, where the king lived. Anxiety quickly soured the food in her stomach. It was her first Council meeting.

  She knew from her studies that Donation Castle marked the spot where the Jandari accepted the faith and joined the Commonwealth, but her first sight of the castle was a bit disappointing; it was smaller than the Harlowes’, with square towers that even she knew were out of fashion. Everyone built round towers now. Magus had said no family kept the kingship for long, so no one spent money on its holdings.

  The inside was better. They gathered in the Blue Chamber, a gorgeous room painted the color of a midnight sky. It was bright from a dozen bronze oil lamps extending from the walls, and a fresco of Narima the Midwife covered the ceiling, smiling benevolently on the dark wooden table at the center of the room. She was so wise, God had chosen her as one of his augurs.

  Three men sat at the table. She recognized Eldest Hoshaber and Justiciar Archbold Mackmain from the trial, but the other was a stranger. He wore a breastplate engraved with a lion’s head that shone in the lamplight.

  “Larissa, allow me to present Marshal Rennik Jasper, commander of the king’s armies. Marshal Jasper, this is my new apprentice.”

  Larissa inclined her head respectfully. “Milord.”

  Marshal Jasper barely glanced at her. “Let’s hope this apprentice turns out better than your last, Tancred.”

  Magus smiled tightly. Larissa found a seat in the corner and tried to be as small as possible.

  An eternity later, King Randolf arrived, his hearthguard close behind. The king sat down at the head of the table, half reclining in an oversized chair piled high with velvet pillows. Sir Gladwin winked at Larissa in passing, then took his place behind the king, hand resting on the only weapon in the room.

  She felt a sense of peace now that Gladwin was there, her only real friend in this bewildering new place. Magus was a dutiful mentor, but Sir Gladwin actually cared for her as a person, not as a pactmaker. He often took her to see the amusements of Chimkant: traveling shows, fairs, and best of all, the grand horse auction.

  “Our Treasurer is on the Coast, meeting the Eastmark bankers regarding Rupert Harlowe,” the king said, adjusting the pillows beneath him. “Our Conciliator is ill. But where is Lockridge? He asked for this meeting.”

  Justiciar Mackmain slid a letter across the table. “A messenger left this with the chamber guards. Lockridge is attending something vital but will come as soon as possible. He said his reason will be clear when he arrives.”

  Petulance flashed across the king’s face, reminding Larissa of her little brother Kolos. “Very well. Let us proceed with other business. How goes our mobilization?”

  Larissa thought she saw the marshal’s cheeks warm. “Poorly, Your Majesty. Lockridge’s forces are gathering in the far north, near Ringstone. House Boyd is mustering the Duchy of the Coast — Coastermen arrive in tithes and centuries by the day.” He frowned. “Apart from these, however, the other dukes show little activity. Except Duke Killyngton, whose men are said to be arming.”

  “They may be arming,” Magus said, “but to fight beside us, or against?”

  “Neither.”

  Everyone turned to Eldest Hoshaber. “I may not have the conciliator’s spies,” he said modestly, “but the elders of the faithful are neither deaf nor dumb. Word from the Desert Duchy is clear. Killyngton will not revolt against the Crown, but neither will he assist in the destruction of the Harlowes. His men rally in self-defense.” He smiled sadly at the king. “Killyngton wants only peace, as do I. This Duke Harlowe is young and impetuous. Extend the hand of friendship and you may win him back.”

  “The hand I extend holds a sword,” the king said dismissively. “This upstart has no place ruling our most crucial duchy. By rights, it belongs to Rupert Harlowe.

  Larissa frowned in confusion; it was the first she had heard of a Rupert Harlowe. Eldest Hoshaber and Sir Gladwin looked pained at the king’s words, while Mackmain and Jasper laughed and nodded in agreement. “That story works as well as any, Your Majesty,” Jasper said, giving his lion-headed breastplate an approving slap. “Rupert will do whatever you say, so long as we cover his dicing losses.”

  “I think the incomes of the March will be sufficient for even Rupert’s ill-luck,” Magus said dryly. “We should take care that none of the Harlowes come to injury. The Swans may invade, should aught happen to the Swan King’s daughter or grandchildren.”

  Marshal Jasper nodded. “Her brother Waldrich holds the southern Swanlands. I fear he may come to his nephew’s rescue even if we promise no harm to the boy.”

  “We can handle the Swans, should it come to it.” The king clutched the arms of his chair, sitting a bit taller. “Any invasion of Jandaria will only serve to unite the other dukes behind us.”

  Larissa thought the marshal looked skeptical, but he held his tongue.

  “And if Belgorsk invades?” Sir Gladwin asked softly. “Vyr ravage the west, the kingdom is divided, and now we plot war against our own border March. Could we withstand the Belgorshans?”

  “We now make policy based on a fool’s counsel?” The king laughed, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at the hearthguard. “Gladwin interrogated a jester during our time at Nineacre. The droll little man swore that Priest-King Leax plans an invasion.” Mackmain and Jasper laughed dutifully. “Leax and I are cousins. He could wish us no ill.”

  Just then, shouts erupted from outside the chamber, and Larissa heard the echo of steel on steel. Someone thudded into the door, yelping in pain. Sir Gladwin drew his blade and moved to protect King Randolf from whatever waited outside. The doors flew open, and men wearing the colors of House Lockridge entered, holding crossbows to their shoulders. Larissa could see royal guards lying outside, moving but injured.

  “Protect the king!” Sir Gladwin bellowed, charging the nearest of them. Larissa slithered under the table as the others began to rise from their seats. She felt a strange warmth pass through her body. Was it just panicked imagination, or was dark hair bristling on her hands?

  “Gladwin, peace!” Lockridge ran into the room, holding up a hand. “The assassin is here among us.” The hearthguard froze, just before running through one of the crossbowmen. Larissa peeked out from under the table, curiosity winning over fear. The warmth receeded as her panic came under control.

  Who was the assassin? It quickly became obvious as the guards turned their weapons on the magus. Though hard-looking men, each seemed terrified and Larissa worried they might shoot him dead in their fright.

  “Tancred, I arrest you in the name of King Randolf,” Duke Lockridge said, motioning for a trailing soldier to come forward.

  The soldier clutched manacles in one hand, though different than Larissa had ever seen. He pulled Tancred’s hands behind his back and bound him. The queer manacles locked around his wrists, with smaller holds for each finger. “Apologies, Magus,” the guard whispered. “Please, don’t hex me.”

  “No one is being hexed,” the king said, pushing to his feet. “Lockridge, don’t be an ass. Release Tancred immediately. If anyone should be arrested, it is you. Assaulting royal guards and storming this chamber? Are you mad?”

  “Your Majesty gave me warrant to find the assassin. We had long suspected Sosmun, Duke Harlowe’s cupbearer, and now we have proof. Alethea Harlowe’s own handmaid just arrived in Chimkant and told me all – she overheard Sosmun plotting with the magus, only hours before the assassination. Fear stilled her tongue, but conscience won out and she has come forward. Under questioning this
morning, Sosmun confessed everything. Tancred plotted your death.”

  It couldn’t be true. Larissa looked to the magus and saw no guilt in his expression, just shocked disbelief. She wanted to shout something in his defense, but fear stilled her tongue as well.

  Magus struggled in his bonds. “Don’t be a fool, Lockridge. Randolf needs my protection!”

  With a quick step, Duke Lockridge whipped out his dagger and slammed its pommel into the side of Magus’s head. He dropped soundlessly to the floor. “Tancred has a reservoir. I could not risk him casting in the king’s presence.” He motioned for the guards to take the magus away. “We’ll put him to the question and learn who pulls his strings.”

  CHAPTER 28

  T imble sat on Sosmun the Cupbearer’s bunk in Nineacre Castle and reflected on murder. Sosmun was in Chimkant, a prisoner of Duke Lockridge, and if he really had helped the magus, then Timble hoped he was getting tortured good and proper. Lockridge’s men had long ago ransacked the room and taken most of its contents, but a slate lay under the bed, with some basic figures etched in chalk, and a child’s primer rested on a table next to the bed. Sosmun was trying to better himself. Ambition was an admirable quality, Timble reflected, but it could make men stupid. Perhaps it had driven Sosmun to betrayal.

  The straw mattress was shredded. Poking through the remains, Timble found nothing of interest. He traced the mortar of both wall and floor but found no sign of a hidden cache. This was his third time in the room and no new inspiration came to him. It was time to question Sosmun’s fellows. For days he had bought them drinks and let them win at dice, and now he could cash in on that goodwill.

  The evening meal was long finished. The kitchen servants would be polishing off the leftovers, and full bellies made for loose tongues.

  Timble crossed the courtyard, finding soldiers at training even so late in the evening. A half century stood in ranks, swinging weighted practice swords as a serjeant called out the forms. He found the servants just outside the kitchens, one strumming a gittern while another played the shrike pipe.

  Timble smiled and grabbed the homeliest woman among them, spinning her into a goat dance. They jumped past one another, hands on their waists. Then she sashayed away from him, shaking her bony hips and smiling coyly. He bucked and then leaped closely behind her. One of the cook’s boys jumped up and charged Timble with the same leaping step, the two of them colliding gracefully and then dancing around each other in mock combat. Timble happily gave way to his rival, settling in between two laughing servant lads. The dance went on, with the women taking turns in the middle and the men vying for their attentions.

  “Any word on Sosmun?” Timble asked, taking the jug from one of them. “They say a pigeon arrived from Chimkant today.”

  The boy shrugged. “They don’t tell us nothing.”

  “But you hear more than most. Being so close to the high table.”

  “I do! Some of the words the Old Dowager uses. Worse than the dockhands in town.” He glanced nervously around, but there was no danger of being overheard so long as the shrike pipe played. “Didn’t hear nothing about poor Sosmun though.”

  “Poor Sosmun? He helped the assassin kill your liege lord.”

  “Must have been magicked,” the boy protested. “Or tricked. He loves the Harlowes. They treated him good. Came from Near Ingarsby with an empty purse and moved all the way up to cupbearer. Always had a nice word for us servers, too.”

  “Moved up, did he? Maybe the assassin promised to take him still higher.”

  The boy shook his head. “He aimed to steward for the Harlowes one day. How much higher can a lad from the savanna go?”

  Timble swallowed a mouthful of sour wine and passed the jug along. Magic made sense. The serving boy might have overheard nothing at table, but Timble had kept his ears perked while entertaining the family that morning. A bird had arrived from Chimkant. A glorious pigeon, the grandest pigeon in the fabled history of pigeondom, for it brought news that Tancred the Magus was in chains, arrested for the murder of Duke Garzei Harlowe and an attempt on the king. Perhaps Duke Lockridge had listened to him after all. And if Sosmun truly was loyal, it made sense that Tancred had enthralled him.

  Trying to keep the evil glee from his expression, Timble leaned in close. “They say Lady Alethea’s maid was the one who accused Sosmun.”

  The boy grunted angrily, nose wrinkling up over his wispy mustache. “Edine Langton hates Sosmun. She’d say anything to see him gutted.” He reached past Timble and tugged the sleeve of a friend. “Ayi! What did Edine think of Sosmun?”

  “Lower than hookworm,” the other boy answered. “A fair bit lower.” He went back to talking to the girl dandled on his knee.

  “See? Told you. Edine was tumbling one of the castle knights and him a married man. Sosmun called her a slattern. After that, he just ignored her. Hard to say which one made her angrier.”

  “I hadn’t heard of this,” Timble said casually, watching Second Cook dance with a chamber maid. The hapless girl yelped as he trod on her foot. “Which knight was that?”

  “Sir Bartram, the one they call Hornbill on account of his nose.”

  Timble chatted amiably a few minutes longer, then left the group with a well-timed joke about Second Cook’s appetites. He knew Hornbill and had never liked the fellow, a garrison knight who lorded his position over the common soldiers. That he was cuckqueaning his wife only made him more of a bastard. In Timble’s ledger, betrayal was the blackest of all sins, worse than murder.

  Conflicting impulses fought within him on the way to find Sir Bartram. Tancred was in chains and likely to lose his head, a delightful thing to contemplate. Everything pointed to his guilt: the alchemical poison, his time sojourning with Leax, Sosmun possibly being magicked, Edine’s testimony, Tancred’s foul history… But Timble needed to be sure. He had promised Selwyn to track down Duke Harlowe’s murderer. It would be a betrayal not to question this Hornbill.

  Besides, it might be a laugh.

  Sir Bartram had the nighttime watch, so Timble waited for a moment when the man was on an empty stretch of wall.

  The conversation went about as well as he expected. After a simple question like, Did Edine Langton ever tell you anything about Sosmun?, the man grabbed him by the tunic and asked what he was implying.

  “Nothing! Just…did she maybe talk about him in her sleep?”

  Sir Bartram leaned in, his long, pointy nose perilously close to Timble’s eye. “I’ve got a wife at home. You spread any tales about me, and I’ll cut your throat and toss you in that river. Understand?”

  Timble briefly considered telling the man he was working for Duke Harlowe but decided it wouldn’t be sporting.

  The next morning, he grabbed the stolen spices from his neighbor’s room and left for town. The ferryboat dropped him on the bank and he ambled to Harlowe Ford, whistling merrily. Life was grand, with his bag smelling of coriander and cinnamon, Tancred rotting in jail, and violence beckoning just ahead.

  Given what he planned to do, Timble first stopped by the spice-grocer in the center of town. Once the hue and cry was raised, he wouldn’t want to be burdened with them. The grocer’s eyes widened at the fine selection of spices, but he asked no questions, giving Timble perhaps half of what the townsfolk would eventually pay.

  Next, Timble went to see Hornbill. The knight’s cottage sat on the very edge of town, facing the castle. It was a fair one, made with mud bricks covered in plaster. His wife had done it up right, painting flowers and braided patterns around the windows. A quarter-acre of vegetables grew outside, with kaif trees just behind. Timble saw no one watching, so he slipped down among the kaif, waiting for his moment. After working all night, Hornbill was sure to be sound asleep. A baby babbled from inside, and Timble could hear a woman singing to the little beast.

  The sun was well on its path before the lady left for market, the baby slung across her hip. Patting an unsold sachet of powder inside his cloak, Timble stepped into the co
ttage.

  Sir Hornbill lay in bed at the far end of the room. Timble pulled the lead-filled sap from his belt and crept toward him. Suddenly the great beak of a nose turned in his direction. Hornbill’s eyes were open. In a blink, the knight was on his feet, clad in nothing but his beard. “Come in my house?” the man bellowed, grabbing a stout chamber pot from the bedside. He tossed the sloshing vessel at Timble. It flew past, shattering wetly against the wall, buying the man time enough to grab his sword. “You come in my house?”

  Timble backed away, free hand darting inside his cloak. Out came the sachet of powder, and as Hornbill charged him, Timble tossed a rosy haze of ground flame pepper into the knight’s open mouth. He had used it previously on biting dogs, and once on a wolf, but this was the first time on a man. The results were just as gratifying. The knight dropped to his knees, eyes winched shut. Enormous trails of snot erupted from his nose. He curled on the floor, stuffing rushes in his mouth and chewing on them while kneading feebly at his eyes.

  Afraid the yowls would alert neighbors, Timble put him down with a stiff clout from the sap. Then he tied the fellow to the bed frame and did his best to wash the flame pepper from his face. He eventually prodded Hornbill awake. “Tell me about Edine.”

  The knight moaned hazily and sneezed out pink-tinged mucus. “What?”

  “Edine Langton. Your woman. Tell me about her.”

  “Go suckle from Neptha, you short-arsed bastard.”

  Timble hadn’t expected cooperation, which is why he had taken such a direct approach to begin with. He felt inside his cloak and pulled out the garrote. He’d made it himself, carefully braiding thin strands of transmuted steel into a supple cord that was perfect for choking an enemy. Of course, it had other uses as well. Taking hold of the wooden toggles on either end, he slid the metal cord under the knight’s manhood, then wrapped it round twice.