Stolen Dagger

by Shawn Wickersheim

Glavinas’ blood-shot eyes swiveled around loosely until they fixed upon him. “You are being a rather unhostable . . . unhospital . . . inhospitable host!” Spittle dribbled onto his chin as he fumbled for the right word.

  “And you are being a terrible drunk!”

  “No, I am a wonderful drunk,” Glavinas grumbled. “But give me something to drink, and I’ll aim for spectacular.”

  “Gentlemen!” Kylpin rose and stepped between them. “I know our tempers are a bit exposed today but let us remember we are all friends here. We have all suffered losses.”

  Glavinas snorted rudely. “Not him!” He pointed a fat, accusatory finger at Ian. “He is the golden boy of Belyne. No ill tidings have called upon his door.”

  Ian opened his mouth to contradict him but decided instead to hold his tongue. Nothing he said now would change Glavinas’ mind or his attitude. Before Leorna’s death, the Yordician lord had been a jovial man, full of mirth and goodwill. Her passing had cast a dark shadow over his world and Ian feared he would never recover from it.

  “That’s not true,” Kylpin spoke up. Ian shot him a hard glare, but the Seneician sea captain continued anyway. “Lord Ragget took control of Ian’s jungle outpost.”

  Glavinas chuckled softly to himself.

  “It is no laughing matter,” Kylpin snapped.

  “You’re right . . .” Glavinas mumbled. He snickered again.

  Ian frowned. Exactly how much alcohol had Glavinas consumed? He’d never seen him laugh at another’s misfortune before.

  “You are being rather cruel, my friend,” Kylpin said.

  “He’s not himself.” Ian stepped in front of Kylpin. “And there’s no point in speaking with him now, not while he’s in this condition.”

  “You talk as if I’m not in the room,” Glavinas muttered. “Have I turned invibable . . . indivisable . . . invisible?” He held a hand in front of his face and stared at his waggling fingers. “Nope.” His snickering dissolved into a bout of giggling.

  Ian ran a hand through his hair and paced over to the long, floor-to-ceiling windows. The sitting room overlooked the entire city, but his gaze was drawn to the three familiar men standing across the street. The blood drained from his face.

  “Hello?”

  Ian turned away from the windows. Lumist was standing just inside the arched doors.

  “I’m sorry I am late,” the old knight said. “I couldn’t afford a . . .” he cleared his throat. “I walked.”

  “Come in and join us.” Ian gestured to an empty chair. “Sit.” He glanced outside again. The three royal wardens were still there, standing under a tree, unmoved. “Lunch is nearly . . .” he trailed off as Lumist limped into the room, favoring his right leg. A large, yellowish-black bruise marred the left side of his face. “What happened to you?”

  “I had the misfortune of meeting a few Gyunwarian-haters last night after I paid off Bolodenko’s men.” The old knight dropped into the chair opposite Glavinas. “They demonstrated their extreme fondness for our people by beating me up and leaving me in a ditch near the Necropolis.” His face pinched tight as he studied Ian. “Do you believe me now?”

  Ian didn’t know what to believe anymore. Too many strange events had occurred recently for him to easily sort it all out and he feared if he didn’t resolve some of the issues soon, he would become overwhelmed by them. He glanced out the window and sighed. Being followed by the royal wardens in such a manner was never a good sign. Perhaps Lumist had a point. Perhaps there was a secret organization of Gyunwarian-haters roaming the streets searching for innocent victims to beat and torture. But to believe that meant giving into the fear of prejudice and Ian wasn’t willing to do that just yet. He didn’t want to think the peace he had so long worked to maintain was failing, because that would mean he was failing.

  Ian bowed his head. Was he failing?

  Failing at peace would mean he failed his country, his son . . . and especially his grandfather. What would Alan Weatherall have done in this situation? Ian searched for an answer, but none immediately came to mind. He wished the old man was still alive. His surviving journal could only impart so much wisdom and while his words were a comfort, what Ian really wanted was his grandfather’s personal guidance.

  “Ian, darling. Are you ill?”

  Ian blinked. Lady Cuci Kindacaid stood a few feet away, staring at him quizzically. Her once plump face had lost its fullness and her clothes hung loosely over her now slender, almost gaunt frame.

  “I’m sorry.” He forced a smile. “I . . . I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “I know, darling. I’ve already called your name three times.” Cuci took his hand. “What’s wrong? You look troubled. You weren’t robbed too, were you? I thought you told us your vault was impregnable. Did they take everything?”

  “No one broke into my vault,” Ian reassured her. “I just have a lot on my mind.” He glanced around at his friends. Each had sullenly withdrawn into their own private troubles. This was not what he had intended when he had invited them over for this casual luncheon. There had to be something he could say to lift their spirits. Before he could think of anything, Gertrude came to his rescue.

  “Lunch is served,” she said, poking her head through the open doorway. “Come now, while it’s still hot.”

  Though her demeanor was rough and her manners crude, Gertrude’s cooking was unrivaled, and her announcement had the desired effect. The three men shrugged off their melancholy. Kylpin and Lumist each grabbed an arm and helped Glavinas out of his chair and the trio of unlikely friends headed toward the dining room. Cuci tailed after them. “Ian, darling, aren’t you joining us?” she called over her shoulder.

  “I’ll be right along.”

  Cuci offered him a gentle smile. “Put aside your troubling thoughts while we eat. It is bad for the digestion, or so I’m told. There will be time enough for discussion later.”

  Ian wasn’t sure about that. He glanced out the window. The three wardens were gone. Only a cloud of blue smoke remained.

  Why were they following him? Were they investigating a case? A crime? Perhaps, the alleged rape? Had Josephine gone to the authorities after all? Straegar would be more than eager to investigate her claim. He would gladly send men to follow him . . . to arrest him.

  Ian closed his eyes. Was Straegar involved in all these recent unexplainable events too? Was the captain of the wardens trying to frame him somehow? Ian shook his head at the series of new questions. This pattern could not continue. He couldn’t just keep raising more and more questions. He needed to find some answers, and quickly, because despite what Cuci said, he was starting to think there wouldn’t be time enough later. In fact, as he turned away from the window and headed toward the dining room, he had the ominous feeling that his time was quickly running out.

  Chapter 44

  Josephine stared at the perverse river of blood flowing from one step to the next like a macabre series of crimson pools and waterfalls. Briefly she thought, Esmerel will have to scrub for hours to get that clean, and then she remembered the little maid was dead in a pool of her own blood downstairs. Josephine blanched at the hodgepodge of feelings colliding inside her; guilt over her mental lapse, anger at her inability to stop Lipscombe, and a strange disembodied fearfulness as if she had stumbled into a nightmare and could not find her way out again. The foul images inundating her since the night her father had been kidnapped could not be real, and yet, their vibrancy was too real to be ignored.

  A voice deep inside told her to look up. The body providing all this blood must be visible already, likely lying somewhere near the top of the stairs. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t force herself to raise the level of her gaze. Keeping her head down, she trudged up the stairs. What new horror waited for her at the top?

  She saw boots first. Then legs and then her gaze drifted over the rest of the body on the landing. It was not a member of her family. Relief and curiosity washed over her. She crouched beside the corpse and studied it closer
. It was an unshaved man, deeply tanned, and he reeked of both death and the sea.

  A sailor, perhaps? She tentatively lifted the right sleeve of his tunic. A crude, red fist tattoo decorated his shoulder.

  A Bloody Fist. One of Lipscombe’s crew.

  Josephine straightened, holding a hand over her nose and mouth. Three crossbow bolts had put him down and by the look of surprise frozen on his face, he hadn’t expected the attack. Her mother or sister must have used her crossbow! A strange sense of pride filled her and for a moment, she felt hopeful again. Perhaps they were both still alive.

  She turned and let out a strangled cry.

  At the other end of the hall, sitting on the floor with her head fallen forward onto her chest, was her mother. The magical crossbow lay on the floor beside her. Josephine couldn’t move. She couldn’t catch her breath. The floor tilted dangerously beneath her. She almost fell. Stiffly, as if her joints had suddenly lost all sense of purpose, Josephine staggered forward, whimpering, and fell beside her motionless mother. She might have been sleeping; dozing during the heat of the day, except the deepest of slumbers could not imitate the eerie stillness of the death shrouding her.

  “Mother,” Josephine’s voice cracked. She checked the body. No visible wounds. No blood on or pooling beneath her. Faintly, a discordant tone of foul magic thrummed the air . . . low and steady, like a heartbeat, but not quite. More like a drum. A cold realization settled over her and her arms blossomed with goose bumps.

  Magical death.

  Josephine’s mind reeled. At first, she had thought this invasion was Lipscombe’s handiwork. Esmerel’s brutal murder certainly contained elements of his sadistic nature, but the quietness of her mother’s death did not. Someone equally vile had stolen her life and suddenly Edgar’s words returned to her and she knew immediately who was responsible.

  Lipscombe’s partner, Furland Pervis, the assassin mage!

  She recognized the smell and tone of his magical work now, and its pungent stench, like a sickening blight, caused her to retch. She had done everything just as Lipscombe had commanded, and yet, he had sent Pervis to slay her family anyway! Her jaw tightened. Rage rose and reddened her face. Rage directed at herself, at Lipscombe, at Pervis.

  A choked cry broke the stillness. Josephine tensed. Was it her imagination playing tricks on her again or had she truly heard a noise? She fell into a crouch, ignoring the pain from her earlier assault, and picked up the discarded crossbow.

  Another whimper escaped from one of the nearby rooms.

  Leigh!

  Josephine’s nostrils flared. What was Pervis doing to her sister?

  She paused long enough to check the weapon in her hands and saw that of course it was loaded. The weapon was designed to reload automatically, a bit of her father’s unique magic combined with a touch of technology.

  Gripping the weapon tightly, Josephine darted down the shadowy hall, past the stairs to her sister’s chamber. The door was closed, but the lock had been broken.

  Without hesitation, Josephine shouldered her way through the door. Leigh was on the floor, tied to the foot of her bed and a fat, little man was humping on her like some deranged animal.

  Josephine raised her crossbow. “FURLAND PERVIS!”

  The noise of the broken door banging against the wall hadn’t caught the mage’s attention, but her furious shout did. Pervis’s head snapped around. A bitter scowl etched into his sweaty face. His beady rat-eyes widened when he found himself staring down the tiller of the loaded crossbow.

  “NO!” he growled nastily.

  The floor rippled beneath Josephine as Pervis summoned his magic. She did not budge. She did not flinch. And this time, she didn’t hesitate to pull the crossbow’s trigger.

  Again, and again, and again.

  Chapter 45

  Ian was about to push himself away from the dinner table when the serving boys reentered the hall carrying more trays of food. Obviously, Gertrude had not heeded his request to keep the meal simple. With the threat of poverty looming over each of his friends, the last thing he wanted to do was remind them of his own wealth by hosting a lavish feast, but as he glanced around the table, he noted his concern was unfounded. All of them seemed in better moods, even Glavinas.

  Ian sighed as the burly Yordician lord lifted his plate and drank the red wine marinade left behind after finishing his fifth helping of venison. His voracious appetite seemed rivaled only by his consumption of intoxicating drinks.

  The serving boys delivered their pewter trays of sliced honeyed bread, rum cakes, small wheels of Dardynian spring cheese, fruit pastries and of course, Gyunwarian olives. Ian smiled to himself. He remembered many autumns as a youngster spent helping in the olive harvest. While the older men climbed the ladders, he stayed on the ground, combing the lower limbs with his gloved hands. On a dare once, issued by his brother, he had popped an olive in his mouth straight from the tree. His father had laughed so hard watching him spit the bitter fruit out again that he had nearly lost his balance on the ladder and fallen.

  “I need a drink,” Glavinas said, spewing crumbs. He had crammed an entire slice of rum cake into his mouth.

  A page stepped forward with a pitcher of wine. Ian waved him away. “Bring out a jug of cider for Lord Roth.”

  “Cider?” Glavinas swallowed. “I swear Ian.” He shoved another large wedge of cake into his mouth. “I think you have me confused with your boy.” He gestured toward another server. “Give me something to drink.”

  “No!” Ian shouted. All eyes turned toward him. He softened his tone. “Send the wine back. We’ll all drink cider instead.”

  “Ni biswail,” Glavinas sprayed the table with more cake crumbs.

  “Are these olives from your family’s plantation, Ian darling?” Cuci asked.

  Ian smiled at her attempt to change the subject. “Yes, my father sends regular shipments with his letters.”

  “And he and your mother are well and happy back in Ryerton?” Cuci continued.

  Ian nodded. “The moderate climate agrees with them. They were never fond of the cold winters and the usually damp springs here.”

  Lumist grunted. “Does anyone really like the Yordician weather?”

  “If you hate it here so much Lumist, why do you stay?” Glavinas asked.

  Lumist straightened in his chair. “I have my reasons.”

  Glavinas snorted and shook his head. “Everything’s a secret with you, isn’t it?” He grabbed a handful of olives, and started tossing them, one by one, into his cavernous mouth. “Secrets, secrets, secrets.”

  “I think men need secrets.” Cuci patted Lumist’s hand. “Otherwise, they become dreadful bores.”

  Glavinas belched. “Did your husband keep secrets from you?”

  A heavy silence filled the room.

  “Glavinas!” Ian snapped. The casual atmosphere around the table was gone and he regretted not sending Glavinas away earlier when he had arrived drunk.

  The burly lord raised his hands in an innocent gesture. “It’s a simple question, Ian. By her own admission, either Lord Byron kept secrets, or he was a bore. I want to know which. Frankly, I found him a bit tedious. The man never drank.”

  “That’s enough!” Ian glared down the length of the table at him. “I did not invite you here to discuss-”

  “Why exactly were we invited here, Ian?” Glavinas cut him off. “To be reminded that you still retain your wealth and we don’t?”

  “My husband was a perfect gentleman,” Cuci blurted out, “unlike some at this table.”

  “Cuci, please,” Ian began. “Just ignore him and forget-”

  “To whom do you direct that insult?” Glavinas asked Cuci. “Me?”

  “Lord Ian is trying to talk!” Kylpin spoke up. His dark eyes raked the room taking in the other three guests. “And for all our sakes, I think we should listen to him.”

  Glavinas shoved his empty plate aside. “Ah! The hired help has spoken.”

  “Another d
erogatory word and I’ll have Denton escort you out!” Ian warned.

  The room quieted. Eventually all eyes turned toward him again.

  “No doubt, you have heard rumors floating around the city about Kylpin’s ship,” Ian said. “Unfortunately, the rumors are true. His ship went down yesterday afternoon, taking with it his entire crew and the remainder of our cargo.”

  “Oh, Kylpin,” Cuci spoke up first, “I’m dreadfully sorry.”

  Glavinas mumbled something sounding vaguely apologetic.

  “I am meeting with the king tonight,” Ian continued, “to discuss all the troubles we’ve experienced recently . . . the burgled vaults, the loss of the ship’s goods . . .”

  “And your outpost,” Lumist added.

  “Yes,” Ian admitted. “I will speak with the king about the outpost and Lord Ragget.”

  “What did Lord Ragget do?” Cuci asked, glancing around the table. “Did I miss something?”

  “Ragget took Ian’s outpost.” Kylpin said.

  “Are we supposed to feel sorry for him . . .?” Glavinas mumbled.

  Cuci held a trembling hand to her lips. “Why . . . why would Ragget do such a thing?”

  Ian heard the fear and hatred mix in her usually tender voice. Ragget and her late husband had always been staunch enemies in the courtroom. “I don’t know, but I’m sure I’ll find-”

  “You know what you should do, Ian? You should march over to Ragget’s estate and confront him right now!” Glavinas said. “Forget about speaking to the king. You talk too much as it is! Talk, talk, talk . . . It’s time for action!” He downed his cider in one large gulp and slammed the flagon down on the table hard. “And I will go with you.” He struggled to rise, but his tremendous girth and the lingering effects of the alcohol kept him seated. “Ni biswail!”

  “I’ll go with you,” Lumist offered. A determined gleam burned in the old knight’s eyes. “We can ask him about those fires too.”

  “No.” Ian said.

  “Why am I not surprised?” Glavinas snorted and raised his flagon. “Page! I’m empty here! Are you blind?”