The Scarecrow (Master of Malice Book 1)

by Peace, Cas

  “The next person to show his disrespect will get a taste of my steel. First Minister Levant has come here out of concern for your welfare to talk with you, and all you can do is accuse him of falsehood. I’d think twice about your response if I were you. Me and the lads are just itching for some action after finding our comrades slaughtered. A rabble such as you wouldn’t even count as exercise. Do you hear me?”

  There was sullen silence. Ardoch’s reputation was well known among the townsfolk. He had been a popular figure in the King’s Guard for more years than some could count and his devotion to duty was legendary. There wasn’t a man among the rabble who wanted to cross words with him, let alone swords. The silence dragged on while the Torlander’s gaze swept over the shamed faces before him.

  Levant broke the hiatus with a discreet cough, trying to hide a smile. “Er, thank you, Swordmaster. Good people, I can see your concerns run too deep for me to assuage by a simple statement here at the gates. If you would care to choose twenty of your number to represent you, I will grant that group free audience at which they may air your anxieties. I will answer all questions openly and honestly and see what I can do to reassure you. Will that content you?”

  There were murmurs of surprise. A free audience was rarely granted. None had heard of it being used in such circumstances before. But then the King had never been away from the castle when such troubles had come to light. The crowd muttered, Ardoch hovering close to the gates, his sword still naked in his hand.

  “Well?” he roared.

  “We accept,” someone replied, to a ripple of nervous laughter.

  Ardoch’s incredulous expression at being misunderstood was almost comic. “Get on with it, then!” he bellowed, causing those nearest him to cower.

  Men were hastily shoved forward and the Guardsmen cracked the gates, just enough for one man to slip through at a time. They clanged shut behind the last man, a shabbily dressed, dirty fellow. Levant turned back to the castle, leading the delegates with him. Ardoch stayed where he was with the majority of his men, staring meaningfully at the crowd.

  They stared back.

  “Go home,” the swordmaster ordered.

  Once again, people at the back began to obey, but those at the front were slower. Ardoch sighed.

  “Lads.”

  The sound of twenty swords being drawn didn’t reassure the crowd. The measured single pace each Guardsman took at the same time as his neighbor was the final straw. The crowd thought better of its reluctance and suddenly remembered pressing business elsewhere. People melted into the cold, dark streets like thawing snow.

  + + + + +

  The wastrel lagged unnoticed behind the other delegates as they walked alongside Lord Levant, all strangely subdued now they were separated from their fellows. Their anxieties and grievances seemed less important, less meaningful, now they were to be given the opportunity to air them, and doubtless many of the twenty would have turned and headed for home, like the rest of the crowd.

  The vagrant had no interest in his fellow delegates now that they’d fulfilled their function. He looked about keenly as they entered the castle doors, alert for any chance to hide until such a time as he would be free to search for the Princess. Finding her in the labyrinth of corridors and staircases would be no easy task, or so he thought.

  So it was with startled surprise that, lingering forgotten behind the rest of the delegation, he came face to face with her as she stepped out of a room close by.

  She gasped in shock, but before she could give him away he hissed, “Highness, I must speak with you.”

  He had only intended to let her know she must contrive another trip to the city, but before he registered her intent, she grasped hold of his sleeve and dragged on his arm. “In here,” she murmured, “quickly.”

  Nonplussed, he allowed her to tug him into the deserted room she’d stepped from. She shut the door and leaned her weight against it, staring at him.

  “You still smell bad. Don’t you ever take a bath?”

  He observed her keenly. Her initiative had surprised him, but her manner was so like the Baron’s he had found himself obeying without question. He ignored her comment.

  “Your Highness, we must be brief. I hadn’t thought to speak with you today, but since you’ve precipitated events, I can tell you my errand now. Her Majesty, your mother, sends you greetings and asks if you can help in a simple matter.”

  Seline’s eyes widened and she clasped her hands together. “You’ve seen my mother? Is she well?”

  The vagrant shook his head. “I can only tell you what I was told, and we have little time—my absence might soon be marked. What I need is a hiding place within the castle. Somewhere that will allow me to come and go in the night without being observed. Can you help me?”

  “If I do, will I get to see my mother?”

  He heard the desperate longing of an abandoned young girl in her voice and responded smoothly. “Of course you will. This is part of the plan to allow your mother to return to the castle. You want to help her, don’t you?”

  Seline glared at him. “Of course I do. And I have the perfect hiding place—somewhere no one goes, not even the servants.”

  The wastrel was skeptical. This sounded like a child’s hideaway and he needed more than that. Once he was safely hidden within the castle he could devise his own methods for disguising his movements, but it had to be more than the wardrobe in the girl’s room or the space beneath her bed.

  Seeing his dubious look, Seline smiled slyly. “I gave my nursemaid the slip so I could come down here and watch what was happening. She never lets me see the important stuff, but I’m going to rule the realm someday—at the very least, a province. I don’t need to be sheltered. I know bad things happen. And I have my own private place where I can go when I don’t want her to find me.” Seline reached into her gown, pulled out a pouch, and produced a key. She dangled it before the vagrant’s eyes. “Do you know what this is?”

  He inclined his head. “Pray tell me, your Highness.”

  Seline watched his face. “It’s the key to the east wing, where my mother had her apartments. Now she’s gone, it’s deserted and locked up. No one goes there, ever. Except me.”

  The vagrant gazed respectfully, possibilities flooding his mind. Seeing his expression, Seline’s lips tightened.

  “You thought I was going to suggest something silly, like hiding you in my room, didn’t you?”

  He merely grinned.

  She stamped her foot. “I’m not some little baby, you know! I do know what’s going on. My mother sent me that letter, remember?”

  He saw the sudden thought that struck her and she put aside her petulant air, becoming a lonely little girl again. “You’re going to be here for a few days, aren’t you?”

  The vagrant nodded.

  “If I write a letter to my mother, can you take it for me? My father reads all the letters I send through his runners and it’s so unfair! I want to send her a private letter, like the one she sent me. Will you do that?”

  The vagrant had no idea whether he would even survive this latest task, let alone when his usefulness to Reen would give out. Nevertheless, he nodded. He’d tell Seline whatever she wanted to hear if it gained him access to the east wing. It sounded like the perfect place to hide, if it truly was deserted.

  Seline smiled in triumph and returned the key to her pouch. The wastrel regarded her narrowly. “How are we to achieve this, your Highness? I may have already been missed and we can’t risk them searching the castle.”

  Seline shook her head. “We’d have heard by now if they’d discovered your absence. They’ll hardly notice one less among that group. You can stay here till later. I’ll come and get you to take you to the east wing. But I’d better go. My nurse … my maid will be looking for me and we don’t want her blundering in here. Stay quiet and wait for me. It’ll be a few hours until I can come back. I have to have supper and a b—that is, I have certain duties to attend before m
y maid will think I’ve retired. But I’ll come as soon as I can. I’ll try to bring you some food, too.”

  Before he could reply, Seline unlocked the door and slipped outside. Darkness returned to the room. He heard her quick steps pattering away and smiled into the gloom. This was turning out better than the Baron could have hoped for and his servant knew he’d bought himself a few more days of life. He settled into one of the comfortable armchairs to sleep away the hours until his coconspirator returned.

  + + + + +

  “Oh, come on, man—what’s the matter with you? One more ale’s not going to hurt you. What’s the worst he can do, flog you? Bet it wouldn’t be the first time! Ain’t it worth a little pain to enjoy a good drink with your mates?”

  Dexter glanced over to where the red-haired guard was badgering two Manor swordsmen, Col and Pengar, into another drink. He saw the silent appeal Col sent him and gave the briefest of nods.

  He and a good few of his men were sitting in the smoky bar of the local tavern, along with what looked like most of Lerric’s guards. From what Dex had seen since their arrival, Lerric didn’t have that many men, but the tavern was crowded with them tonight. Dex had split his own forces up among Lerric’s to better the chances of hearing interesting gossip. Col and his close friend Pengar were sitting at the table next to Dexter’s with a few of Lerric’s men, all of whom seemed determined to get very drunk indeed.

  Dexter frowned. They seemed to have no pride in themselves and no loyalty to their master. Though their conditions and their pay were poor, they were still the servants of a king. Dex thought that should count for something, but not, it seemed, among these rough and vulgar soldiers. As soon as they were free of the palace grounds they reverted to a rabble, making Dexter’s instincts for discipline itch to smarten them up. But he was playing a role tonight and mustn’t forget it.

  He was surprised how hard it was to act the disgruntled, downtrodden minion. It made him realize just how privileged they were to be in the service of Elias, under Mathias Blaine. The General might be stern and unforgiving, and a hard taskmaster, but he was fair. He was a leader who believed in the integrity and trustworthiness of his men, and rewarded loyal service in kind. There wasn’t a man of his who wouldn’t give his life for his King, his officers, or his comrades.

  But this lot! Dexter sighed. Underneath the grime, poor food, and lack of proper discipline, most of these lads were probably all right. Wil had told him about Captain Bassan, and Dex had come to the same conclusions as his corporal. Under a senior officer such as Major Tamsen—or Colonel Sullyan, he thought with a grin—most of these swordsmen would discover a sense of pride they never knew they had. It made him pity them and he threw himself wholeheartedly into gaining their trust.

  The tavern was smoky and noisy; it was hard to make yourself heard. The other men were playing cards, arm-wrestling, hassling the overworked tavern girls, or passing around a strange-smelling pipe, which contained a strong narcotic. The hazy purple smoke it gave off got into everything it touched—hair, clothes, food, drink. It was impossible to avoid and Dexter very nearly ordered his lads to leave once he realized what it was. But he would be failing his major and his King if he did, so instead he glared meaningfully around at his men, making sure they all understood.

  + + + + +

  Col took a healthy swig of his ale and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. He frowned. “That’s a different brew to the last one.”

  Pengar followed suit, gazing up at the ceiling as he ran the brown liquid around his tongue. “Not bad, though.”

  Their companions, two of Lerric’s men, grinned. “Thought you’d like it,” said the red-haired one who had bought the ale. “We make a fair brew in these parts, if the harvest don’t fail, that is. One year we had so little corn we had to drink bloody cider all winter.”

  Col was partial to a bit of cider. “What’s wrong with that?”

  The second man, the black-haired one, stared at him in disgust. “Woman’s drink, bloody cider is. Weak as rat’s piss, like women are. A man needs good ale to strengthen his sword, if you know what I mean.”

  An obscene gesture accompanied this remark, along with general laughter. Someone slapped a passing tavern wench soundly on the rump. She squealed and let loose a slap of her own, which connected with the offending man’s face. He roared with indignation and stood up, catching the girl about the waist and sending her two empty tankards flying. He carried her off to a darkened corner, to the cheers of his comrades, where he ignored her struggles, forced her to the floor and proceeded to teach her the price of her insolence.

  Col and Pengar traded glances, not liking this turn of events. They had never been in a tavern where such things were permitted in full view of the other patrons, but the swarthy landlord took no notice, not even when the girl cried out at her ravisher’s harsh treatment. Pengar shook his head at Col—they couldn’t do anything that might turn the delicate friendships they’d forged into hostility.

  Their red-haired companion saw them eyeing the grunting swordsman in the corner. “Want some of that, do you? I can arrange it if you’d like.”

  Col managed a smile. “Maybe later. This ale’s too good to waste on tavern girls.”

  Lerric’s man roared with laughter and clapped Col on the back, nearly making him choke. Col rolled his eyes at Pengar, wishing they’d drawn guard duty instead.

  He and Pen had been singled out by the two palace men as they walked to the tavern. Most of Lerric’s men had gone on beforehand. Only the handful who had unwisely accepted Dexter’s suggestion of a few hands of cards were left. Col and Pen had been lucky enough to double their original stake and the two palace men must have thought them worth the price of a drink or two. Pen generously bought the first round and Col the second, although he and Pen had made their tankards last and only bought ale for the other two. Now, as the palace men were halfway down their third tankard each, Col decided the time was ripe to probe for information.

  “Drink here often, do you?”

  The red-haired one stared across at Col with bleary eyes. He’d been on night duty not twenty-four hours ago and had enjoyed precious little sleep what with Bassan’s damned cleanup detail.

  “Are you joking, mate? Don’t have the pay to do this very often. We don’t get regular pay like you lot, y’know.”

  Pen’s eyes were struggling to focus through the smoky haze. The face of the black-haired man seemed to flicker for a moment, as if a cloud had passed over his vision. “So why do you stay?”

  Red-hair grunted. “Bad pay’s better’n no pay! At least we don’t have to ask permission to drink of an evening if we wants to. Seems to me you boys can’t take a piss without asking first.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with a bit of discipline.” Col shook his head. The purple smoke was giving him a monstrous headache and his stomach was beginning to rebel.

  Black-hair snorted. “Oh, don’t give me that. Don’t pretend you like it. That pretty young officer of yours is a right bastard by the looks of things. He’s only got to sneeze and you lot jump. Poor bloody Bassan was in a right old state by the time he’d finished with him. Never seen the old bugger so worked up. Gave us a proper kicking, he did, dragged us out of bed—and us been on night duty—and told us to sweep the bloody yard. Sweep the yard! I’m a swordsman, not a bloody skivvy!”

  Col was feeling distinctly green. He couldn’t work out what was wrong with him. He’d never had trouble holding his ale before. “It’s just the way we do things. Major Tamsen’s all right. He’s strong but fair. Like the Colonel. Now she—”

  “What did you say? Did you say she? Don’t tell me you lot take orders from a woman! Did you hear that, Othal? Their colonel’s a bloody woman!”

  + + + + +

  Red-haired Othal grinned at his comrade, but there was no retort from either of the Manor men. Both simply sat there, eyes open, hands on the table, completely unaware of what was going on around them. Othal’s companion, Varth, retu
rned the grin and glanced around the chaotic tavern. The room was so smoky he could barely see the men at the next table, and the noise had swelled so much that normal conversation was impossible.

  “Time to go.”

  Othal nodded and put his hand under Pengar’s arm. “Up ye get, me laddo.”

  Pen stood with no protest and Col rose likewise in Varth’s iron grip. The four left the tavern, unobserved by anyone from the Manor.

  Once outside, Varth and Othal picked up their pace, tugging at their unresisting companions. Col and Pen, eyes wide but unseeing, were led away from the tavern and into the town’s back streets.

  It was late and the freezing weather meant all the townspeople were indoors. Hardly any windows showed a light. Daret was a poor town and bed was often the warmest place in most people’s homes. Col and Pen were guided through the cobbled streets until they reached the outskirts, where large storage barns flanked the road and hay and animal smells filled the cold, still air.

  Varth dragged Pen toward the nearest barn, pulling the door open. Othal followed, pushing Col toward a wooden bench. The Manor swordsman sat heavily when released from Othal’s grip, but didn’t react at all to his surroundings. Othal took flint, steel, and bowl from the pocket of his cloak then knelt and struck at the tinder. When he had a glow, he lit a taper and touched it to the lamp they’d left there earlier. Varth closed the door, the feeble lamp lighting only the tiny circle where the four men sat.

  Othal glanced at Varth, but his companion’s eyes had gone strangely blank. Ignoring him, Othal turned his attention to Col and Pen, a nasty smile quirking the corners of his mouth.

  “Now then, my friends,” he said, his voice low, quite different to the rough tones he had used before. “Who’ll begin? Who wants to tell me all about Major Tamsen? Let’s start with something about his family and where he comes from, shall we?”

  As Col began to speak, his droning voice devoid of inflection, a sullen ruby glow swelled in Othal’s eyes.