by Dave Dobson
I stole back over to a window and peered inside. I was getting better at this kind of field work than I had been. My experience, brief as it was, riding along the border with Clarice and Boog had made me tougher, quieter, stronger. I remembered the layout of the house from our previous visit. I was looking through the small kitchen to the larger room on the main floor, where the fireplace glowed. Though the window glass here was clear, it was set in diamond-shaped panes. The glass was wavy, so it was hard to see, but I could make out three people talking. When I shifted to find a clearer pane, I could identify all three. One was Marron, dressed in a stylish, finely embroidered surcoat showing his house’s coat of arms. Another, in a black robe, with short blond hair and a reddish beard, was Brand. I remembered his face well.
The third, I’d only ever seen from a distance, but even so I knew him immediately. After all, his portraits adorned all the city offices, the Guild’s included, and his bearded countenance was stamped on every coin. His Grace, Jeroch, High Lord of Frosthelm, Prelate of the Northern Realm.
55
Quick Succession
I waved the others over. Each looked, in turn, and each came away from the window with wide eyes.
“The Prelate!” hissed Cheliaux.
“We can’t act against him,” said Soren. “We swore an oath of fealty."
“You also swore an oath to protect Frosthelm from all enemies,” said Boog. “Looks like you might have an oath problem." Soren looked away in discomfort.
“We don’t know he’s an enemy,” I said.
“He seems chummy with some enemies,” said Boog.
I looked at the window. It had a hinge on the inside, and the lower section could swing out. There was a rusted metal prop rod hanging below, connected to the window. There was a latch inside, but it was just a hook and eye. True security for the home came when the heavy shutters were closed and bolted, but they were open now, flat against the house on either side. I stuck my dagger into the crack at the base of the window and pried upward. I could see the hook inside straining against the loop of metal that held it. I put more weight behind my dagger, and the window moved upward. Finally, the small eyelet broke off the window and the hook popped free. The window came up quickly, but I caught it with a gloved hand, and it made no squeak or complaint. Those inside did not seem to notice the noise. Perhaps either the fire’s crackling or their discussion was louder. I held the window open, unwilling to risk the chance of noise from using the prop rod. The voices inside were clear now.
“Your Grace,” said Marron. “Our plans are about to bear fruit. You gave us your approval. You’ve sanctioned this every step of the way.”
The Prelate frowned. “I approved you looking into this Faera as a weapon, one we might use against our enemies. You reassured me that it would be powerful and easy to use. From what my agents and advisors have told me recently, what you’ve got going here is much more of a religion than a weapon, and it’s not clear you can control it at all if it gets loose. I’ve seen what you’ve got down there – the statue, dusty artifacts, that body – it’s not a weapon you’re after, or to help Frosthelm. You’re nothing but a pack of damned fanatics.”
“We can control it,” said Brand. “The texts are clear.”
“If I wanted to hear your opinion,” snarled the Prelate. “I’d ask for it. No, this has gone far enough. Karela was right to crush it the last time, and I must do the same. I am withdrawing my approval. This must stop, now.”
Brand glared at the Prelate. I’d seen that anger in his eyes before. “Your Grace,” said Marron, still calm and cool. "I beg your pardon, but you cannot lose your nerve. The rewards are still there to be had, if we are bold enough to take them. Limitless power. Eternal life. Enough to strike fear and envy into all our enemies. Enough to keep Frosthelm safe for all time.”
The Prelate drove a finger into Marron’s chest. “You overstep your station when you say I lose my nerve. You are where you are, who you are, because of my support. It can be taken away as freely as it was given.”
Brand spoke up. “You can’t stop us, regardless. It is too late.”
“Ha!” scoffed the Prelate. “It is hardly too late. Perhaps you forget who rules this city?” He pulled a sheet of paper from inside his thick wool coat. “I have here a Prelate’s warrant for your arrest, signed by me. My personal agents have collected the names of all of your leaders. All are to be taken prisoner and tried for sedition. The objects you have here are to be impounded.” He smacked the paper into his open palm. “This is over.”
I felt a rush of elation at the Prelate's words. Whatever he had done to help Marron in the past, it sounded as though it was now finished. Completed. The threat gone.
"But, your grace," said Marron, "That simply won't do." He moved over to the Prelate, one hand outstretched in a gesture of supplication, the other at his belt.
“What do you—” said the Prelate, and then Marron shifted quickly, his outstretched hand on the Prelate’s shoulder, the other pressed against the Prelate's belly. The Prelate grunted, low, in his throat. I could see him stagger, clutching his stomach. “Marron, you cur, I’ll see you hang for this,” Jeroch roared. Red gore flowed from his abdomen, oozing out from under his hand. He struggled to maintain his footing.
Two guards, wearing the livery of the Prelate’s personal guard, rushed into view, swords drawn. They must have been waiting nearby. This was not their finest hour, to be sure, with the Prelate stabbed and bleeding before them. “Kill them!" gasped the Prelate. He fell back against a wall. Both guards attacked Marron, their swords raised, swinging, but Marron parried one and sidestepped the other. He followed his parry with a vicious stab, his bloodstained dagger flashing in the lamplight. He scored a hit. The guard cried out in pain.
The other, the one whose blow Marron had dodged, swung his sword back at Marron with a backhanded stroke. Marron was turned away, facing the guard he’d stabbed, and it seemed impossible that he would avoid the blade a second time. But then Brand held up his wand, and there was a bright flash of light, and a yipping noise, like that of a small, agitated dog. The guard's sword flew out of his grasp, past Marron, clattering on the ground. The guard’s armor and clothing fell empty to the floor in a cloud of orange powder.
The other guard, her eyes wide, struggled to fight on, but Marron made quick work of her, landing three vicious blows with his narrow dagger in quick succession. The guard sank to the floor. Marron turned to the Prelate, who looked barely able to hold himself up.
“Mother of Blood!” hissed Cheliaux, “We need to save him!” She tried to push the window farther up to crawl through. I stooped to help lift her legs, but the window would not open wide enough to allow her through. She strained against it, pushing hard against the sill, but it would not yield.
“What… are you doing? You’ll never get away with this,” said the Prelate, his voice hoarse and weak. He slid lower down the wall.
“Ah, Your Grace,” said Marron. “But I will. Thanks to the positions you have granted me, there are any number of people I can find to blame for your death." As we watched from the window, impotent, Marron stabbed the Prelate once more, in the chest. The Prelate gurgled and fell to the floor, sliding down onto his guardsman.
“That wasn’t wise,” said Brand, his voice unsteady. He seemed shaken, either by the Prelate’s death, or more likely, from the strain of using the wand. “We can’t afford the attention right now.”
“It won’t matter,” said Marron, wiping his dagger on a kerchief he pulled from a pocket. “I doubt anyone else knows the Prelate is here. We’ll hide the bodies until we need to have them discovered, later. It could even be useful. With the Prelate dead, I can make a play for the title myself.”
“There won’t be a need for titles, or for Prelates, if tomorrow goes as we hope,” said Brand.
Marron looked back at him. “Look here, Brand, if I can engineer my way to being Prelate, we do not need to free Faera. We’ll just rule Frosthelm o
urselves.”
Brand’s eyes blazed with anger, and his voice rose to a shout. “Are you mad? Tomorrow is our only chance. There will never be another in our lifetimes. There is no turning back. With all we have done, all we have prepared, you would consider backing down? Are you weak, like the Prelate?”
“No,” said Marron, looking at the wand Brand still held. “I suppose you are right.” He dropped the bloodstained kerchief and turned away from Brand and from the jumbled bodies and weapons on the floor. “Have Tolla clean this up and stow the Prelate’s body. We may yet need it, and she’s the only one we can trust with this. We need to get to the temple.”
As they spoke, the four of us outside had been frantically trying to figure out what we could do. We whispered furiously at each other. I don’t think we could have acted quickly enough to protect the Prelate – it had been over in mere seconds, and we were trapped outside. But what could we do now? Boog and Cheliaux wanted to break down the back door and rush in. Soren seemed paralyzed by indecision and fear. I pointed out that Brand had killed with the wand effortlessly, so an immediate assault seemed foolhardy at best.
As we dithered, events inside carried on without us. Marron disappeared from view. Brand opened the front door and called for one of the guards, whom he sent to find Tolla. He found a pen and paper, scribbled out a note, and laid it on the Prelate’s body.
Eventually, the house went quiet. The four of us were still left outside, angry and frustrated, unsure of our next move.
“Wait here,” I said. I thought I might be able to fit through the window, small as I was. I handed the window to Boog, then raised a leg up and over the window sill and wriggled through the crack. I got stuck partway through, but I calmed my rising panic and kept on, the window frame scraping painfully against my neck and chest. At last, I was in. Slowly, slowly, I crept through the house toward where the Prelate lay. I heard no one else inside the house, but I couldn’t be sure I was alone. We had seen neither Brand nor Marron leave.
I laid a finger on the Prelate’s neck, then felt for his breath. The Prelate was dead, his eyes open and staring. A monumental event for Frosthelm, but there was no time to mourn him now. I picked up the note left by Brand.
Tolla – please clean this up. And for the Mother’s sake, be discreet about it. Obviously, nobody can know of this. You can hide the body at the manor for now. We'll find a better place tomorrow if we need to.
I returned the note to where I found it. On the floor by the Prelate’s hand, I found the paper he had been holding shortly before his murder, stained now with his blood. I picked it up and flipped it open. It was indeed a warrant for arrest, with a long list of names, and the Prelate’s characteristically flowery signature at the base. I tucked it into my jacket.
I heard a shuffling at the door, and as quickly but silently as I could, I flew to the back door, drew back the bolt, and stepped outside. I eased the door closed behind me and circled back around the house.
“He’s dead,” I said. “The Prelate is dead."
“Mother of Blood,” swore Cheliaux, somberly. “This is horrible. Marron must pay.”
“Soren,” I said. “Go report this to the Guild. No, find the City Guard. They’ll be closer. I think there’s a post down the street there, past the tavern, maybe three blocks.” I’d have sent Boog, but he was under a death sentence, as was I. That might be difficult to explain to the Guard, if they realized who he was. “We’ll hide and wait for you here. We need to get the Guard here before Tolla comes, so they can see the body.”
We retreated back behind the wall, watching the side of the house carefully and studying the windows for movement. After receiving their new orders from Brand, the two remaining men seemed to take their work more seriously, walking to and fro before the house, scanning the street. But they seldom looked back to our position, and we kept low and still.
As far as I knew, Marron and Brand hadn’t come out, and I hadn’t seen them in the house. So, they had either gone upstairs together for some reason, or they had descended into the passageway under the house. I suspected the latter.
We waited for five minutes, then ten. This shouldn’t be taking so long. The murder of the Prelate was easily the most serious crime that could be committed in the city, and it would have been taken seriously by any member of the city guard, I was sure of it.
After another five minutes passed, Boog went after Soren. He slipped silently away into the night. Cheliaux and I stayed at the wall, staring at the house, but nothing changed.
Another five, another ten minutes passed. Eight riders clattered up to the front door of the house, their horses’ breath steaming in the cool night air. I was glad at first, thinking them the city guard, but I soon saw that they did not wear the green sash. They were a motley crew, men and women, all armored, all seasoned riders, all heavily armed with a variety of weapons. Some wore helmets, some hoods. Others had bare heads. They did not wear the colors of the house of Marron. In fact, there was nothing uniform in their dress at all. A band of mercenaries, perhaps? Or an elite special squad?
One of the riders walked up to the door and pushed back her hood. As she spoke to the men guarding the door, I could see in the flickering torchlight the unmistakable light brown skin, dark hair, and a long braid hanging down to one side. Tolla, who’d captured me, led me to torture, and tried to kill me. She pushed past the two men and entered the house alone.
There was a noise behind me. Boog was back, but with no City Guard in sight.
“Soren is at the guard post, but he’s chained to a ring in the wall,” said Boog. “I could see through the door. They were questioning him. I didn’t think I should go in.”
A cold feeling wormed its way into my gut. Of course Marron would have the guard posts closest to this place staffed with guards he trusted. Or paid. Or both. They weren’t going to investigate one of his houses, especially not tonight. They probably had specific orders not to, no matter how serious the accusation. Even if it was the murder of the Prelate, and his body lay cooling in a pool of blood not four blocks away.
56
A Man, Gueran, with a Plan
It was well past midnight by the time we found Gueran. Eighth bell had rung long ago, while we’d watched Tolla remove two bodies wrapped in blankets from Novara’s house. She’d tied them unceremoniously across the backs of two horses and ridden off, escorted by her gang of mercenaries. Cheliaux left, headed back to the Guild to try to report the murder. She wasn’t sure how she could report it, with Marron’s influence controlling the Guild, or how she could get Inspectors or City Guard into Marron’s house to search, but she was going to try. We asked her to tell Gueran to meet us at a point by the Guild hall as soon as he could.
Boog and I had watched the house for another hour, but nothing of interest occurred. Marron’s guards occasionally came and went. Eventually they realized the guard from the rear of the house was missing. They started a search, placing our safety in jeopardy, and we decided to leave for the time being, to consult and regroup. I was sure Brand and Marron had gone beneath the house and used the tunnel we’d found. They had never reappeared, and there was no sign of activity or movement in the house. We needed to get down there ourselves.
But first, we needed a plan, and that meant meeting with Gueran. He arrived outside the Guild Hall, down an alley, our arranged meeting spot, just after we did. He said Cheliaux was pressing for a full search. As a witness to the crime, and as an Inspector in good standing, she was having some success. He thought there would be a party sent to Marron’s house within an hour or two. An inspector had been dispatched to free Soren, with assistance from some trusted members of the City Guard.
All that was fine, but we needed to find Marron and Brand to have any real impact on the Faerans. Gueran suggested that if there were a big enough commotion at Marron’s manor house, Boog and I might be able to fight or sneak our way into Novara’s house and then be able to see where the passage led. A desperate plan, full o
f uncertainties, but we had nothing better.
I was dead tired from weeks of hard riding and sleeping outside, and Boog didn’t look much better. We asked Gueran to let us know when the raid on Marron’s home was to be scheduled, and then the two of us found a dark, sheltered doorway and sat, leaning against the wall. Boog began snoring almost immediately, and I soon after, like vagrants or beggars.
Rough hands shook me awake. “It’s on,” said Gueran. “It took longer than we hoped, but they’re on their way. Ten inspectors, six of them on our side. With a Guard escort.”
I blinked. The first hint of dawn was touching the streets and whitewashed walls nearby. We must have slept for two or three hours – too long! Boog rubbed his eyes. “All right,” I said. “We’ll go back to Novara’s.”
“I brought torches,” said Gueran, “and some bread and cider. Torgen says the cultists are to meet in Fountain Square later today. Perhaps they'll be led to the temple from there. I need to get to Marron’s. I can’t believe he killed the Prelate.”
“Thanks, Gueran,” I said. “You’ve been …… wonderful in all this. Thank you for all you’ve done.”
His lips curled upward in a small smile. “I did it for Frosthelm, and for Sophie. As did you.” He turned to go. “Don't get yourselves killed.”
We made the trip up High Street as the dim glow brightened into morning. We wiped the soot from our faces, but we were still dressed in black, well-armed, and carrying torches. Conspicuous, and clearly up to nothing good, but nearly no one was about that early, and those we did see were immersed in their tasks, preparing for another day’s work. Nobody paid us any mind, and I was grateful for that. The rising light gleamed off the damp cobblestones of the street as we passed the windows of Frosthelm’s finest shops. As we rounded the final corner, Novara’s house came into view, and I could see the orange glow of the sunrise reflected in the diamond pattern of the windows. As during the previous night, there were three guards stationed outside the front door.