Darrell felt himself tense at that. He knew that he should remain calm, that the last thing he needed was to draw attention to himself. After all, it was only by luck that he hadn’t been taken captive with May and Hale. He’d been following Grinner’s men, as Adina had asked him, when he heard of the club owner and the crime boss being taken prisoner. He’d been distracted by his worry for Aaron and the others and hadn’t thought through what such a thing might mean before he rushed to the castle meaning to learn the truth of it. It was only chance that had sent him practically barreling into Balen, Michael, and a giant soldier named Bastion as they hurried away from the castle.
The sweating, breathless first mate had told Darrell everything he knew about what had taken place, about Grinner’s sudden rise to prominence, before begging the swordmaster to accompany him and the others to the ships where he thought they would be safest, should the worst come to pass.
Grinner. Even thinking of the man made Darrell’s hands clench into white-knuckled fists. He had accompanied the others to the boats, helping Balen with the giant who was clearly wounded and unable to stand, let alone walk, without help. But then, against Balen’s wishes, he’d gone back out again to do what he could. First, he’d traveled to the inn where he’d been staying, remaining outside, hidden in the shadows of an alley, and he hadn’t had to wait long before a squad of soldiers had shown up asking after him.
Darrell had thought to go hunting for Aaron and the others, had even been on his way to do so when he’d remembered what Adina had asked of him, to investigate Grinner to discover what, if any, hand he had in the disappearance of the others. Besides, he knew that Captain Gant had men out searching for Aaron and the others, and he, at least, was no traitor.
So instead of rushing off to find Aaron as he’d wanted, Darrell had spent his time following Grinner’s men, listening to them spew their vile lies to any who would listen as he tried to follow the rumors back to their source. He hadn’t learned as much as he would have liked, but he knew enough now to know that Balen was right: the worst had come to pass. From what he’d seen and heard, Grinner had managed to insinuate himself deeply into the queen’s counsel, and all over the city, rumors were spreading of Aaron, Adina, and the others running away on the eve of battle. Cowards at best or, at worst, siding with the ancient mage, Kevlane, and turning against Perennia and its people.
Although he knew he would be of no use to Aaron and the others locked away in some dungeon, that there were soldiers out, even now, searching the city for him and Aaron’s other companions, he could not help the anger that rose in him on listening to the man’s filth. “Traitor, is it?” the big man said, his mouth drawing into a frown as he considered it. “Well, now, might be that’s the case, but I don’t know it matters much one way or the other. Far as I’m concerned, once they’re found they should be executed, and let the Death God sort ‘em out.”
“I just don’t know,” the one named Lemm said, finally gathering up his courage. “General Envelar was tough on us, sure, but he never struck me as no coward. Just about as far from one as you could get, you ask me. And traitor?” He shook his head. “Naw. That just don’t sit right with me.”
Darrell watched Grinner’s man study the others at the table, gauging their reactions. When they frowned, he leaned forward, eyeing the man who’d spoken as if he’d just drawn a blade before glancing at the others, his gaze finally settling on the big man. “They say General Envelar weren’t workin’ alone. Said there was other folks helpin’ him.”
The big man frowned in thought. “You mean the princess, right? I’ve heard the same, and so far as I’m concerned, they can put the headsman to work on her, once he’s done with that bastard Envelar and those other two they’ve got locked away.” He barked a harsh laugh. “Not that I’d mind if they let me spend a little time with her first, that is.”
“Princess Adina is royal blood!” Lemm said. “You can’t talk about her like that—she’s King Marcus’s daughter, for the gods’ sake, not some whore you picked up in a brothel.”
“Not just the princess, anyway,” Grinner’s man said as if Lemm had never spoken. His gaze was still locked on the big man who was scowling at Lemm. “Ordinary folks. You know, folks like tavernkeepers or clerks or…” He paused, turning to look at the one who’d challenged his story. “Or soldiers.”
Darrell felt his stomach drop as he watched the big man and the other two at the table think it through, saw as they turned to stare at the man who’d stood up for Princess Adina with open hostility on their faces. “You a traitor, Lemmy boy?” the big man said. “That it?”
Lemm’s face went red again, and Darrell could see anger and fear warring on his features. Just let it lie, Lemm, he thought desperately. Just leave it alone. A stand is all well in good, but one that ends in a pointless death is of no use to— “No I ain’t!” Lemm said, rising out of his seat, his hands knotting into fists at his sides. “Seems to me you all are the traitors, sittin’ here bad mouthin’ the queen and general as if they’ve already been proven guilty and all that’s left is the axe.”
“Ware!” Grinner’s man shouted, jerking out of his own chair and backing up. “He’s goin’ for his sword!”
Lemm wasn’t, of course—Darrell saw that clear enough—but his hands were close to his sides and, thereby, close to the hilt of his sword. Not that the swordmaster suspected it would have much either way, for the soldiers had decided they had a traitor among them even before Grinner’s man spoke, and his confirmation of danger was all the excuse they needed.
Lemm stood stupefied as the big man rushed him, his own thick-fingered fist crashing into the stunned soldier’s nose with a spurt of blood. Lemm was apparently tougher than he looked, however, and he didn’t go down. Leave it, please, Darrell thought, just apologize and—
But Lemm didn’t leave it. He stepped forward, swinging his fist in a left hook at the big mn—who was apparently so surprised that Lemm hadn’t gone down on the first punch that he wasn’t ready for a counter-attack. Lemm’s fist took him square in the chin, and he stumbled, nearly falling himself. The smaller soldier’s second fist struck him in the gut, and the big man’s breath left him in a whoosh.
Instead of pressing the attack, Lemm only stood, his chest heaving, blood trickling down his nose, as he studied the big man who was bent nearly double, gasping for breath. “Now, look here,” the smaller soldier said, “I ain’t no traitor, and that’s that. Damnit, Celd, you know me. Me and you grew up together, and you know I’m the queen’s man through and through. And just who the fuck is this stranger anyway, with all his talk of traitors? I ain’t never seen ‘em before, and—” But whatever Lemm had been about to say was cut short as one of the other soldiers came up behind him and brought one of the wooden tavern chairs crashing down on his head.
Lemm didn’t stumble, and whatever he’d been about to say went unsaid, as he collapsed to the ground in a heap. “Son of a bitch,” the big man, Celd, wheezed, righting himself once more. By now, everyone else in the tavern had turned to watch the proceedings. Maybe it was his embarrassment at getting the worst of the brief scuffle, or maybe Grinner’s man’s words had had their desired effect. Either way, whatever relationship Celd and Lemm had shared held no place in the fury twisting his face. “Son of a bitch is a traitor!” The big man said to the room at large. “Workin’ with that bastard Envelar and Princess Adina to assassinate our queen.”
Darrell saw a mixture of emotions on the faces of those in the common room then, shock, doubt, and more anger than he would have liked. But the worst of it was that none of those who seemed to doubt the big man’s words made any move to intervene as he gave the unconscious man three hard kicks with his booted feet.
On the third, Darrell thought he heard something crack, and he grit his teeth together, knowing that to get involved would be useless. Such scenes would be playing out in taverns all across the city now as men who were angry and scared lashed out at those around them. The best he
lp he could give Lemm—and those others in the city—would be to follow Grinner’s man when he left, to try to learn as much as he could and present it to the queen. She would listen—she had to.
He looked back at Celd and noted that, now that the fight was done and his “traitor” unconscious at his feet, the big man seemed unsure of what to do. He only stood there, frowning down at the man before finally turning to look around the room. But if he was looking for Grinner’s man, he was going to be disappointed, for Darrell realized with a flush of guilt that the man had disappeared sometime during the scuffle, and he’d been so distracted by his own anger that he hadn’t even noticed.
“String him up!” someone in the crowd shouted, and though Darrell craned his neck to try to discern if it was Grinner’s man, he couldn’t see past the circle of people that had gathered at a relatively safe distance around the scene.
“Kill the son of a bitch!” someone else yelled, and this one, at least, Darrell could see, for he stood in the front row of the circle. Not Grinner’s man at all, this one, but a chubby man dressed in a tunic and breeches fine enough to set him apart from many of his fellows and to mark him as a fairly well-off merchant.
Darrell turned back to the big man, hoping against hope, but he saw the unthinking anger return to his gaze, and he bent and lifted the unconscious soldier from the ground as if he weighed no more than a child. He slammed him against one of the thick wooden beams that served as a support for the tavern’s ceiling, and Lemm let out a low groan slowly regaining consciousness. The big man, Celd, turned to one of the two soldiers standing with him. “Come on. Gut this fucking traitor.”
Darrell had to let it happen—he knew that. As evil as it was, as terrible as it was, him risking getting captured himself would only hurt the city, in the long run. With Aaron and the others gone and no idea of when they’d be back, it was up to him to find out what exactly Grinner and his men were up to and bring news of it to Queen Isabelle. It was the right thing. The smart thing. So it was with no small amount of surprise that he found himself standing, his feet carrying him away from the small, corner table at which he’d sat and toward where the scene was taking place.
“Let him go.” He moved toward the big man, but three others from the crowd stepped in his way.
“Just let it happen, friend,” one said.
“Yeah,” said another. “We ain’t goin’ to put up with no traitors in our city.”
Darrell met their eyes, saw the anger and blood-lust there, and thought it unlikely he would be able to talk them down. Perhaps, given time, he might have done just that, but with each moment that passed, Grinner’s man could be getting further and further away from the chaos he’d instigated. It had taken Darrell several days to work his way up to this man, one who, from what he’d gleaned, stood higher in Grinner’s pecking order than the others, and he’d hoped—still hoped—that the man might lead him to, if not proof, at least the one who was organizing everything for the crime boss while he drank and dined in the castle and whispered poison into the queen’s ear. It was a hope that was quickly diminishing with each second that passed.
“Please move,” Darrell said, but the men didn’t listen. At least, that was, until he drew his sword from the sheath at his back. “Now.”
They moved quickly enough then, stumbling out of the way, the blood-lust in their gazes replaced by fear as they realized that the blood they sought could come from them as easily as another. An opening appeared as others tried to get away from the man carrying naked steel in his hands, and the big man, Celd, and his two companions turned to Darrell. “Who the fuck are you?”
“It doesn’t matter who I am,” the swordmaster said, throwing his cloak over his shoulders to free up his arms. “What matters is that you are about to murder an innocent man—a friend, judging by what he said.”
The big man sneered. “Traitors ain’t no friends of mine, old timer. Now, you’d best get out of here before you piss me off.”
Darrell sighed. “That’s exactly what I’m trying to tell you, Celd, if you’d listen.” He gestured to the half-conscious Lemm who was only starting to open his dazed eyes. “You have known this man nearly all your life, have you not? Yet at a few words from a stranger, you are prepared to murder him, without any proof of guilt?”
He saw the big man thinking it through, considering it, and he was growing sure that things would work out alright after all, when someone from the crowd pointed an accusatory finger at him. “Hey, I knew I seen him before! That’s one of the bastards is on all the flyers been handed out in town square!”
Darrell watched whatever reason had begun to assert itself on Celd’s face fade once more. “Yeah, hold on just a damned minute. I do recognize you. Why, there’s a warrant out for your arrest!”
“Things are not always as they seem, Celd,” Darrell said, trying one last time but with little hope. “We have, all of us, been deceived. Councilman Grinner is the real traitor, and it is he who is orchestrating—”
“Councilman Grinner?” one of the other guards barked. “You should have chosen a different scapegoat, you old bastard. Everyone knows Councilman Grinner saved the queen’s life not a week gone.”
“Yes,” Darrell said, forcing himself to remain calm and gathering what ragged patience he had left. “From an assassination that, I suspect, he himself—”
“Kill the traitor!” someone from the crowd screamed. “Kill them both!”
And then words were no longer of any use, for the two soldiers standing with Celd drew their blades and rushed forward. They were competent enough, men who’d spent the last weeks or months of their lives training with the blade, but Darrell had lived longer than either of them by far, and he’d spent the majority of those years honing his skill with the sword, perfecting it. Time and age had robbed him of some of his strength, some of his speed, but the knowledge and experience remained, and he parried the first man’s blade easily enough, dodging a wild swing of the man’s companion as the soldier rushed forward.
Darrell kicked a leg out as the man passed, and the soldier gave a yelp of surprise as his feet went out from under him, and he crashed to the ground. He started to rise, but Darrell put the tip of his sword at the man’s throat, and he froze. “It doesn’t have to be this way,” he said to the other, nearest soldier. “You have made a mistake, but it is not too late to fix it. Nothing has yet been done that cannot be undone.”
But the soldier’s blood was up, and he was in no mood to listen. He gave an angry shout and charged, apparently oblivious to the blade held at his companion’s throat. But the last thing Darrell needed was to draw innocent blood, even if it was a fool’s blood, so instead of letting the blade do its work, he kicked the prone man hard in the face before narrowly avoiding the overhand swing of his companion. The sword crashed down into the prone man, cutting a deep, bloody furrow in the man’s arm, and he screamed in agony.
“That son of a bitch traitor is killin’ ‘em!” shouted a voice from the crowd. “Someone call the guard!”
Darrell had no time to concentrate on the man’s words though as the soldier, apparently unaware or unconcerned that he’d wounded his own comrade, rushed forward again. Darrell didn’t meet the man strength to strength. Instead, he stepped back, letting the tip of the man’s blade pass so close that he felt the wind off of it. Before the sword had completed its course, however, he lashed out with his own, pivoting to lend the blow force, and struck the man’s blade, taking advantage of the soldier’s own momentum to send the swing wide, and its wielder stumbling, wrong-footed, after it.
Before the man could right himself, Darrell stepped forward and planted a boot on the seat of his pants, sending him crashing into a nearby table. Ale mugs toppled from the wooden surface, shattering on the ground around the man as he fell, and Darrell moved in behind him, striking him in the back of the head with the flat of his blade.
It had all happened in a matter of moments, and when he looked up to see if the big man w
as coming for him, Celd was still standing as he had been, staring at the swordmaster with wide, shocked eyes. “Leave it, Celd,” Darrell said. “You aren’t doing yourself or the city any favors by accusing innocents. Take your men and leave.”
But the big man didn’t. Instead, the confusion and surprise slowly faded from his expression, replaced by anger. “How the fuck do you know my name?” he roared, and with that he seemed to forget about Lemm, the previous object of his ire. He released him and rushed at Darrell, his sword leading.
Celd was big, no doubt used to being able to overpower those he fought, and it only took a moment for Darrell to see that, as was so often the case, the man had turned his greatest strength into his greatest weakness. During his time with the army, his commanding officers would have showed Celd the proper footwork, would have drilled him on the importance of combining technique with his prodigious strength. But in his fury, the big man abandoned whatever lessons he’d learned and reverted to a street tough, swinging the sword more like a club than a blade, intent on battering Darrell down with it.
Yet for all his lack of grace, the big man was surprisingly fast and that, coupled with the fact that he showed no concern for his own well-being, meant that Darrell was forced to dodge when he could and parry when he could not in a frantic effort to keep the man’s wild swings at bay. Each parry sent a jolt of pain up his arm, for a fool Celd may have been, but he was also possessed of a fool’s strength. And while he seemed to care nothing for his own safety or that of those around him, the last thing Darrell wanted was for more innocents to be hurt, and he was forced to parry several strikes that—though they had no chance of hitting him—would have cleaved a bloody path through several of the onlookers that were too engrossed in the show to grasp their peril.
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