by Peace, Cas
“I hear you, your Majesty,” Vassa replied evenly, though Blaine knew he’d be wincing at the thought of all the extra work and the barrage of protests he’d have to field. Denny wouldn’t be happy either. Such security measures were unlikely to be effective, not with the amount of trade that passed through Loxton.
Elias had turned to give Taran last-minute instructions as to what he expected to be informed upon while he was away, and Blaine left him to it. With Robin by his side, he made his way to the garrison.
+ + + + +
“What’s the meaning of this? A royal visit? Tomorrow? What are you talking about, man? We always get at least a week’s notice! Is this some prank? Because if it is, I can assure you—”
Corporal Wil Gerion pulled his orders from his jacket and handed them to Lerric’s Captain of the Guard, the sun-circled crown seal of the House of Rovannon uppermost. He had been greeted with incredulity, unprofessionalism, and contempt by everyone from the gate guards to the stable boy and his patience was at an end.
“No prank, Captain. I believe you’ll find these in order. High King Elias will arrive tomorrow morning, escorted by General Blaine and a company of fifty. The General and his Major will expect quarters within the palace. The company and their captain will quarter in the barracks. I strongly suggest you appoint a clean-up detail to work through the night. The High King will not be impressed if he’s forced to dismount into ankle-deep muck in the courtyard. Now, if you’re satisfied as to the validity of my message, would you be so good as to present me to his Majesty?”
The Captain shut the mouth that had dropped open as he read the parchment. Color rushed to his face as he barked orders at a subordinate, sending the man scuttling off to do his bidding. The Captain’s demeanor was improved as he turned again to Wil. “I’m sorry for the manner of your welcome, Corporal …?”
“Gerion.”
“Corporal Gerion. It’s just that this is such an unexpected development. We’ve always had plenty of warning before something as momentous as a state visit from the High King. You wouldn’t happen to know the reason for it?”
Wil wasn’t going to be caught like that. “If you’d just show me through to his Majesty, Captain. I don’t think he should be kept waiting any longer, do you? I imagine he’ll want all the time he can get to prepare for the King’s arrival.”
“This way, Corporal.” The thin man turned on his heel and led Wil down a corridor; this one brightly lit, warm, and richly adorned with tapestries, a stark contrast to the cold and dreary halls Wil had passed through on his arrival. They met no one on their way and Wil guessed Lerric’s palace was largely unused in winter with few nobles in residence, if any, so he chose not to waste gold on heating or torches. This was understandable and was only good housekeeping on the part of the chatelaine, though Wil would have thought a client king of Lerric’s standing would have a larger court than this. Why, even the Manor was more comfortably furnished—and vastly more crowded.
They eventually came to a door adorned with Lerric’s crest of an athletic hunting dog bringing down some fearsome mythical creature. The emblem was worked in gold on the oak door, and the hinges and latches were all decorated with gold leaf. This was more the style Wil expected to see. He knew from reputation Lerric was a shrewd bargainer and a hoarder of his wealth, but Wil couldn’t imagine why anyone as wealthy as Lerric would not display some of that richness for his subjects’ benefit.
The Captain rapped sharply on the door, which opened to reveal a glimpse of a sumptuous room, redolent with firelight, warmth, and several appetizing smells that set Wil’s empty stomach growling.
The Captain conferred in hushed tones with the servant who had opened the door and then turned to Wil. “I’ll leave you to deliver your message, Corporal. Once you’re done, come and see me and I’ll arrange billeting for you. There’s a room you can use within the castle; it’ll make up for your lack of proper welcome as befits a messenger from the High King. And the food’s better than in the barracks.” He grinned at Wil’s appreciative expression then turned and left. Wil directed his gaze to the servant who stood just behind the open door.
“Wait here until you are called, please,” the servant told him, leaving Wil at the door. Wil could hear his low voice as he informed Lerric of his visitor, and then the sound of his feet as he returned. The servant beckoned Wil forward, announcing his name and purpose. Wil looked around Lerric’s private audience chamber with curiosity as he paced toward where Lerric sat in a leather settle in front of a roaring log fire.
The room wasn’t large, but it was supremely comfortable. The flagged floor was fully carpeted and many rich tapestries adorned the gray stone walls. Sumptuous red hangings fell in graceful folds at the three huge windows, drawn against the cold. Three intricate chandeliers were suspended from the ceiling and fragrant oil lamps burned in their niches. Wil compared this luxury to the austerity of the rest of the palace and guessed Lerric was more careful of his own comforts than he was of the rest of his court.
As he approached Lerric’s chair he turned his scrutiny to the client king. He was around sixty years of age, tall, spare, but still agile. His gray eyes mirrored the sternness of his daughter’s, but disillusionment and discontent had not embittered Lerric’s gaze as it had Sofira’s. His eyes held puzzlement, as Wil expected, but the swordsman could also see a measure of fear, which gave him cause to wonder. The suddenness of Elias’s visit was bound to raise wary curiosity, but Wil could think of no reason for fear unless Lerric’s affairs weren’t as Elias wished them. The Corporal filed away his first impressions to relate to his major later.
He halted a respectful distance from the king of Bordenn, bowed, and went down on one knee. “Your Majesty, I bring you greetings from High King Elias of Albia and present to you this notice of his intention to visit your palace on the morrow. He bids me request suitable lodgings within your palace for himself, his general, and major, and informs you he will bring an honor guard of fifty swordsmen, to be quartered among your own men. I have here his letter. May I pass it to you?”
Lerric nodded, indicating Wil should rise. The king hadn’t betrayed one glimmer of his thoughts during Wil’s speech, but he had flicked a swift glance at the room’s other occupant, sitting straight-backed and proud on a hard chair to his right. As Wil stood and passed the General’s parchment into Lerric’s hand, he bowed respectfully to Lerric’s brittle-faced daughter.
“Your Highness.”
Sofira took less notice of him than she would of a scullery maid come to tend the fire. Her stony gray eyes fastened on the parchment in her father’s hands, her stern face chalky. Wil would have appreciated time to study her at some length, sensing a strange disquiet within the former queen. He hadn’t imagined she would feel pleasure at the thought of her erstwhile husband’s visit, but the aura of tense fear she exuded went beyond what Wil had expected. Yet another piece of information to relate to his superiors.
Lerric raised his head from the parchment and regarded Wil. “When will his Majesty arrive?”
Wil noted Lerric’s lack of protestations over Elias’s timing and hid a smile. “The High King and his escort expect to arrive at your gates an hour before noon on the morrow, your Majesty.”
Lerric’s face tightened as he turned to his daughter. “Sofira, would you be so good as to inform the chatelaine of the need for extra provisions tomorrow? She will also be required to organize a feast in the High King’s honor tomorrow evening. Tell her I authorize the huntsmen to take the hounds out if necessary. This damned weather may well have left the kitchens short of meat.”
Sofira nodded stiffly, but made no move or reply. Lerric turned back to Wil, who hadn’t missed the inference that Elias’s visit would seriously discommode Lerric’s household. “You have discharged your duty, Corporal. You are free to find what lodgings you may with the men of my guard. No doubt they can be prevailed upon to feed you, although their rations haven’t been plentiful of late. My servant here
will show you to the barracks.”
Wil bowed himself from Lerric’s presence and returned to the hallway. The servant guided him to the Captain’s rooms and the swordsman soon had what he most wanted, despite Lerric’s gloomy warning: warm lodgings, hot food, and passable ale.
+ + + + +
Lerric stared at his trembling daughter in shock. Her quick, shallow breaths, just audible over the crackle of logs in the hearth, were the only other sounds in the room. Her right hand was pressed to her mouth; apart from that, she hadn’t moved.
Lerric’s voice was tremulous. “What do you suppose he’s up to? Do you think he knows—?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Father! How could he possibly know?”
Lerric stared at his overwrought daughter, seeing her chalky complexion, the fear behind her eyes, and the slight tremor of her fingers. She held out an imperious hand for the parchment.
“What does he say? Let me see that.”
Lerric passed her the note and watched while she read it.
She snorted. “Elias didn’t write this. That’s Blaine’s hand.”
“His damned general,” Lerric muttered, and Sofira nodded curtly. Lerric pursed his lips. “But he’s … you know … one of those—”
“The term is ‘Artesan,’ Father,” she snapped. “And yes, I know. What of it?”
Agitated, Lerric rose. “But they’re who Reen’s hiding from! What if they’ve got a way of finding him? What if they suspect he’s here? They must know he’s escaped the island by now. What if they don’t believe the suicide story?”
His daughter watched him pace before the fire, her expression scornful. “Why should you instantly think Elias’s visit has anything to do with Hezra? Why should he think of coming here even if he didn’t believe the clerics? Hezra and I didn’t exactly part on the best of terms, if you remember, and Elias could hardly suspect you of helping the man who impeached your daughter and robbed her of all she had!”
Sofira’s spiteful, angry tone caused her father to cease pacing and stare at her. He hadn’t heard that aggrieved note since she had recovered from the immediate grief of leaving her children. He had certainly never heard it directed at the man she professed to still love.
Aware of his gaze, Sofira collected herself. She gave a vexed sigh and rose from her chair. “I really don’t think you’ve anything to fear, Father. And you’d better not show this craven nervousness while Elias is here or you’ll trigger his suspicions. Now, I must show this parchment to Hezra and tell him of the King’s visit. He won’t be pleased, I imagine, but at least contingency measures have already been taken to deal with such a situation. We only have to follow his instructions and all will be well.”
Sofira swept toward the door, her stiff, unbending back a silent reproof to the doubts and fears of her father—almost, Lerric thought, as though her own fears didn’t exist. Yet he knew her too well to miss the telltale signs.
She halted, her hand on the latch, and turned to face him once more. “Has it occurred to you, dear Father, that the reason for this sudden visit may not concern you at all? Elias and I were married, you know! We have children, and one of them, at least, misses her mother. Has it not occurred to you that this visit might just be about me?”
With that final, spiteful shot, Sofira swept from the room, leaving Lerric worried and doubtful, staring at the space she had occupied.
Chapter Twenty
The vagrant made his way back into the city as the short winter day turned to gloom. There were guards on the Forest Gate, but none looked twice at a stooped and wasted tramp such as he. Beggars often went into the woods to collect what firewood they could to keep their bones from freezing. His mouth twisted in a sneer as he passed right under the noses of the King’s Guard and reflected that the Baron’s policy of periodically clearing out slum-dwellers had obviously been allowed to slip since his exile.
Well, that suited the vagrant and his master just fine. No one would suspect him of having the strength or the wit to kill the Arch Patrio, and even if he was searched, there was nothing on him to incriminate him. His bloody rags had long since been disposed of. No, he was safe, and now he could turn his attention to the other task set him by his master.
His thoughts revolved around the meeting he’d just had with a certain band of brigands in Loxton Forest. Neremiah’s offertory gold had purchased their willing compliance. The gold, and the promise of more once the job was done, went far toward overcoming their reluctance to spend the night in the freezing forest. The wastrel knew there were several caves deep within the woods which could be made tolerably comfortable even in the depths of winter.
He grinned. The promise of additional gold would never be fulfilled, and there was nothing they could do about it. They would end up doing his bidding for half the agreed sum and never find him afterward.
Satisfied, he made his way toward the city’s poorer parts. The streets here were narrow and dirty, full of gritty snow, rubbish, mangy curs, dead rats and live ones. The detritus of Loxton’s slums went unnoticed by the vagrant as he limped his way past the ramshackle houses, moldering wooden fences, and mean, tented shelters. He ignored the muttered curses and disgusted looks thrown his way by the slum dwellers; the barging shoulders and obstructing bodies melted away before the foul miasma surrounding him. It was growing worse, but affected him not at all, and he continued his way unmolested, heading for his next appointment.
Now the initial contact had been made it was no longer necessary for the Baron to exert himself and speak to Seth directly. The vagrant could afford to meet him in one of the slum taverns, as the manservant desired—no one would mark their hushed voices or conspiratorial attitudes. They would just be two more peasants among the many such infesting the city’s slums. With the King’s Guard occupied over the puzzle of Neremiah’s murder, attention would be concentrated upon the mason and his men. And before the furor surrounding the churchman’s death died down there would be other distractions to occupy their minds.
The vagrant smiled at the thought as he pushed open the rickety door beneath the rotting sign. He was immediately assailed by the smells of stale beer, rancid oil lamps, and too many unwashed bodies. The raucous sounds of the drinkers clamored about his ears, and he shouldered his way through the pack until he could make out the stained and greasy bar through the smoke-filled air. He caught the barkeep’s eye and grinned mirthlessly as he registered the paling of the sweaty man’s face. The barkeep recognized his unwelcome patron, but had learned better than to protest at his presence. Besides, the vagrant now had more acceptable forms of inducement with which to tempt the barkeep out of his revulsion.
“Ale,” he spat, slapping a whole silver bit into a sticky puddle of spilled beer on the bar. The barkeep’s bloodshot eyes widened and the silver vanished quickly into his fleshy palm. A full tankard of cloudy ale was pushed across the bar, and the vagrant ignored the greasy marks and the hard deposits on the rim as he took a long pull. Only then did he let his eyes roam over the patrons, searching for his contact.
+ + + + +
Seth had been waiting half an hour and was beginning to feel sick. The dreadful ale curdled his stomach and the foul-smelling air crawled through his lungs like a fungal growth. His head swam from the noise and all he wanted was to be gone. He had almost made up his mind to leave when he saw the wastrel enter the bar. Fighting down nausea and revulsion, he waited.
The vagrant approached slowly, studying Seth. He pushed past two burly ruffians who turned to cuff him for his shoving and then fell back, hands across their mouths. Although how they could distinguish the wastrel’s stink from the room’s general fug, Seth didn’t know.
“I was beginning to think you weren’t coming,” he snapped as the foul man sat down. Seth’s nostrils tried to close of their own accord and his eyes watered.
“I’ve more important matters to concern me than speaking with you.” The man spoke laconically, a thin line of ale running down his chin and soaking int
o the rough gray cloak he wore. “My master has many plans requiring my attention.”
Seth set down his own tankard, the ale within hardly touched. He had only purchased it for appearances; his stomach could take no more of the acid brew. “So what does my Lord Baron want me to do this time?”
The vagrant turned red-rimmed, cloudy eyes upon him. “You’re to be the lynchpin in a plan that’ll begin my master’s revenge on all those who’ve betrayed him. By tonight he’ll have within his power one or maybe two of his most hated enemies. Did you do as I bid you regarding the servants?”
“Yes.” Seth’s eyes were alight with the thought of serving his master. “Everything’s in place. There’ll only be the mistress and the housekeeper inside the mansion; the rest will be in their own quarters.”
“And do you have the items I told you to bring?”
Seth reached to the floor and brought up a wrapped bundle. He uncovered a corner and showed the wastrel what it contained. The foul man waved it aside.
“I don’t need to see, you fool! So long as they’re recognizable and appropriate, that’s all that counts.”
Seth opened his mouth to protest the fellow’s authoritarian manner, but the vagrant turned angrily on him. “Just do as you’re told and don’t start thinking for yourself! We have our instructions and we must follow them. Don’t for one minute think you’re important to my master. He’ll dispense with your services in an instant if he suspects you might not follow his orders.”
The man’s face was thrust unpleasantly close and Seth leaned away. He was hurt and angered by the implied criticism and was about to reply in kind, but the vagrant wasn’t done. With an evil leer at odds with the very real fear in his shifty eyes, the vagrant put his hands to the folds of cloth over his chest and parted them slightly. Seth gagged, his sense of smell overwhelmed by the charnel reek.
