Benjamin Ashwood Box Set 2

by A. C. Cobble

  “That didn’t happen?” asked Amelie.

  “No,” replied Brinn, “Not like we planned. The sons of the noble houses did indeed leave, but their fathers and mothers stayed behind. The younger generations will try to carve out more territory and power on the battlefield, and the older generations will use their knives to take more here. In some ways, it’s worse than it was before Saala left. I was meant to leave with the king, but instead, I’ve been busy tamping down quiet revolts in the Citadel.”

  Amelie frowned.

  “It’s the rumors and secrets!” growled Brinn. “Every day, there’s something different. Word of some family enacting a betrayal, word of some action we’re going to take to punish them. It’s not all true, but enough of it is that it makes people wonder! More lies, more dissent… Everyone is watching everyone else. The army is loyal to Saala, but his hold on the men gets weaker every day.”

  “Who else is loyal to him?” asked Amelie.

  “Most of the weaker houses are loyal, I think,” said Brinn. “They don’t have the strength to jostle with the stronger families. The war is a chance for them to gain stature. But the strongest houses have decided there’s no reason to travel halfway across the continent with the king on such an unstable throne. If Saala were to fall, there’s only four or five serious contenders who could sit in his place. Rule Whitehall, rule the Alliance? You can see the appeal.”

  “I can,” murmured Amelie after swallowing a bite of roast. “Why did these houses allow Saala to rise in the first place, then, if they were strong enough to take the throne themselves?”

  “Timing,” answered Brinn. “Argren had been king for so long it was assumed the man may be long-lived. He ruled this city with an iron first. When he died suddenly, none of the houses were prepared to bid for the throne. They needed time to work in the shadows. Time to assemble political alliances. Time to bring out their knives in the dark.”

  “And now they’re getting organized.”

  “Now they’re getting organized,” agreed Brinn. “I’m disrupting them as best I can without antagonizing them, but in three more months, we could have open rebellion. Depends on how the war goes. That’s why Saala’s ordered us to march. He needs it to end quickly, and he needs to get back here before these tussling factions have time to gain allies and become serious threats to his power. For now, the military controls Whitehall, but I can’t tell you how much longer that will last.”

  Ben shifted in his seat and then asked, “If these strong families gained the throne, would they continue the war?”

  Brinn snorted. “Of course they would. As king, they’d stand to benefit more than anyone.”

  Ben frowned and sat back. Amelie squeezed his hand under the table.

  Ben woke to the sonorous boom of a gong.

  He sat bolt right up in bed, and beside him, Amelie mumbled, “What is it?”

  After sliding his legs out and landing on the cold stone floor, Ben dashed to the side of the room where he kept his longsword and drew it before entering the common room.

  Rhys and Prem joined him. A moment later, Lady Towaal ducked out of her room, a small fist covering a yawn.

  “Alarm gong,” said Rhys, peering out their lone window. “The city below looks quiet.”

  Ben padded to the door and opened it, glancing out. A few faces were looking curiously out of their own doors, but the hallway was quiet.

  “What is it?” asked Amelie, appearing from within their room.

  Ben glanced back at his friends and shrugged.

  “Should we go see what’s happening?” wondered Amelie.

  At that moment, they heard the tell-tale jingle of armored men jogging. Ben looked into the hallway again.

  “Everyone stay in your rooms!” shouted a voice, echoing down the stone corridor. “In a moment, a guard will stop by for a quick search of each chamber and a count of the occupants. It will be a short disruption. Then you can all return to your beds.”

  “Protocol for an assassination attempt,” remarked Rhys. “They’ll check each room to make sure no one is missing, and no one is harboring extra people. He’s right, this shouldn’t take long. No assassin with half a brain would hide out in the chambers with the foreigners. Obviously, that’s the first place the guards will check.”

  “Are you sur—” Ben sighed. “Never mind.”

  Rhys winked at him.

  Ben plopped down in a chair by their table and tried to decide if anyone in the kitchens would bring him a snack if he asked for it.

  Half a bell later, a pair of guards banged on their door and did an efficient search of each room, checking under the beds, in the wardrobes.

  “Assassination attempt?” asked Ben.

  One of the guards grunted but did not answer. In short time, they determined the room housed only the people it was supposed to, and they moved on, banging on the door across the hallway.

  “Should we… do something?” wondered Ben.

  “Brinn, or whoever they were after, still lives. Otherwise, those guards would have been a lot more excited. My guess is they already have the perpetrator,” said Rhys. “Look down at the city. There’s no disruption there. They’re not scrambling to defend against an attack or frantically looking for someone. For tonight, it’s over.”

  Ben glanced out the window and saw his friend was correct. The buildings of Whitehall were lit by torches and lanterns, making little spots of red on the white of the walls. A few buildings appeared to still be busy, the taverns guessed Ben, but all else was peaceful.

  “Back to bed then.”

  The next morning, they found guards at either end of the hallway.

  “No one leaves the Citadel,” stated one of them when Ben’s party approached. “No one goes above the fifth floor unless invited. We’re sorry for the inconvenience. There will be clerks sent down to relay messages to anyone you need to reach in the city.”

  “We’d like to talk to General Brinn,” said Amelie. “We dined with him just last night.”

  The guard shrugged uncomfortably. “I’m sorry, my lady. I cannot let you go up. My orders were strict, you understand? The clerks should be able to pass a message.”

  “Who was attacked last night?” asked Ben.

  The guards lips twisted in consideration. He finally answered, “The general.”

  Ben’s heart began to pound. “Is he… okay?”

  The guard nodded, but then his eyes snapped ahead at the sound of booted feet. Ben glanced down the hall and saw another troop of guardsmen approaching.

  “Thanks for telling us about the curfew and the rest of it,” said Ben.

  He led his friends to one of the mess halls he recalled from their previous stay. He hoped they were serving breakfast.

  Two days later, they were still locked down in the lower floors of the Citadel, unable to go up to see Brinn and unable to go out into the city. There were plenty of other dignitaries and visitors locked down with them, but not one ventured outside of their circles. It was clear something was going on, and no one wanted to associate with anyone they weren’t sure of.

  Whispered behind hands and passed through surreptitious notes by servants in the hallways, Ben could see that rumors were making the rounds. Bell by bell, day by day, the tension in the lower hallways grew suffocating.

  “If they don’t figure it out soon,” remarked Amelie, “this place will descend into open war.”

  Seth had come down to visit them the day before, but the news he relayed didn’t assuage any concerns.

  “An inside job,” explained the captain. “It had to be. They knew the general’s schedule. Someone close to him fed the assassin that information.”

  “Do you know who?” questioned Amelie.

  “No, the guards wounded him,” answered Seth. “He bled out before he could talk. He could have been hired by someone here or maybe by an enemy and was merely working with a spy in the Citadel. The Coalition, the powerful families in Whitehall, there are plenty of enemies
who may want Brinn dead. We’re not even supposed to talk about it. If we mention a name that is guilty, they might take steps to hide their tracks. If we mention a name that is not guilty, that could be just as bad. Imagine being accused of trying to assassinate the general, the acting head of Whitehall, when you didn’t do it! Of course the family would be livid, and we would lose the little bit of loyalty we have. It’s an impossible situation.”

  Ben and his friends offered condolences, but that was all they had to give.

  When the young man departed, Rhys muttered, “I’d do anything to get out of these damn stone hallways. I need the open air, or at least, an alehouse.”

  “They have ale in the mess hall,” mentioned Amelie.

  “It’s not the same,” grumbled Rhys. “Have you even seen that sour-faced old man who serves it? You’d think a fortress as important as the Citadel would have a few proper serving wenches, but no, they’ve got a man that is one missed meal away from being a skeleton.”

  “I think you’re better off away from the serving wenches,” remarked Prem crisply.

  “Why would I be better away from—”

  Prem crossed her arms and tilted her head slightly. Rhys snapped his mouth shut and sat back, crossing his arms as well.

  “We need to find out what is happening here,” said Amelie, ignoring the rogue and the former guardian.

  “We need to get out of here on the first vessel to Fabrizo,” retorted Ben.

  Amelie shook her head slowly. “You’re right. We shouldn’t delay, but our goal is to stop the war, right? Not necessarily to catch up with Saala. That is just the means we’re trying to achieve our end with.”

  “You think we should encourage this dissent?” questioned Ben. “The Alliance’s forces fighting amongst themselves isn’t all that much better than fighting the Coalition, is it? We mean to stop all unnecessary bloodshed.”

  “It’s not much better,” agreed Amelie. “That’s not what I meant. A dozen assassinations in a few months… what if one of them is successful? Saala and Brinn are the only leaders in Whitehall who will listen to us instead of clapping us in irons. If we can help them, we improve that trust.”

  Ben scratched at the scar the undead mage Eldred had left on his arm.

  “Think about it this way,” continued Amelie. “If we mean to stop the war, Saala is our best chance, and he’s under threat. If he and Brinn are killed, where does that leave us? We save him, and we assure ourselves an open ear. If we don’t save him, and the assassins are successful, it might spell the end of our mission.”

  “She’s not wrong,” concluded Rhys.

  “But we’re stuck here,” muttered Ben. “We can’t do anything locked up in the lower floors of the Citadel. None of the highborn in Whitehall are down here, and none of the military men we need to talk to are accessible.”

  “Rhys?” asked Amelie. “How many assassins are there that would take a job to kill a king?”

  “Successfully? Just a few,” responded the rogue. “That wasn’t who attacked last night. Killing a man that powerful and well protected is rare business. The opportunities do not come along often, and the risks are high. Like Brinn said, Lord Jason is one. I’m another. There was a man named Humboldt who used to be in that strata of business, but no one’s seen him… It doesn’t matter. It’s a safe assumption that Jason was the one who murdered King Argren. The Black Knife has the motive and the talent.”

  “How many would take a job to kill a general even if they didn’t have the skill to pull it off?”

  Rhys frowned. “There could be any number of bad assassins…”

  “Do you know any personally?” pressed Amelie. “Would you recognize some of them or understand their methodology? Surely, they must have some skill if they’re hired to kill a general. How would you go about hiring someone like that?”

  Rhys blinked, understanding dawning slowly. “You want me to work with Brinn and figure out who these assassins are?”

  “If we find them, we might be able to find who is hiring them. If we find who is hiring them…”

  5

  To Catch One, Be One

  “You want to help me how?” asked Brinn, suspicion etched on his face.

  “I’ll find out who is sending these assassins if you let me,” said Rhys.

  He was sitting across from General Brinn, Captain Seth, and the head of the Citadel’s guard, Commander Blevin. Ben’s friends sat beside Rhys, trying to look supportive.

  Commander Blevin rubbed a finger on his bright red nose and then questioned, “And why do you think you could help us do that? I have five hundred men who are doing nothing but searching for clues and securing against future attempts. In case you haven’t heard, we’ve been quite successful since Argren was killed.”

  “Successful at thwarting the attacks,” retorted Ben, struggling not to think of Farview’s tavern owner, Blevin Beerman, every time he looked at the guard commander. It was quite possible, thought Ben, the two were somehow related. Shaking himself, he continued, “You don’t know who’s sending the assassins, do you?”

  Putting his hands on the table, palms down, Blevin leaned forward. “Again I’ll ask, why do you think you can do a better job than me?”

  Ben looked at General Brinn. He held his gaze, ignoring the guard commander. “Believe me when I tell you that Rhys can do this.”

  Commander Blevin turned to his superior. “Really, just because this boy is acquainted with King Saala—”

  “You don’t know who the rest of them are, do you?” interrupted Brinn.

  Blevin blinked.

  “That’s probably for the best,” continued the general, glancing around the group before speaking again. “You are released from custody and will be given leave to move about as necessary. I will assign you soldiers and assistants to smooth interactions with Citadel staff. At all times, you will be under the watch of Captain Seth. He will report to me daily, and if he loses track of you, or I do not hear from him, I will be very disappointed. Agreed?”

  Ben nodded.

  “Wait,” said Seth, raising a hand.

  Brinn looked at him.

  “You want me to monitor them while they, uh, stalk assassins?”

  “They’ll need someone in authority to make sure they can get where they need to go and do what they need to do. It’s not going to be me, and we don’t have many other people we can trust.”

  Rhys leaned over the table and slapped Seth on the shoulder. “You’ll be fine.”

  Rhys was their expert on assassins, and Prem volunteered to stay in his shadow and watch his back as he delved into that dark world. Amelie and Lady Towaal were skilled politicians, and they would study the relationships between the highborn families to see if they could uncover any clues as to who might be hiring the blades. As General Brinn’s right hand man, Seth knew the ins and outs of the military factions and would look for clues there. Ben offered to accompany him as he strolled through the barracks, but the captain declined. He said Ben would be out of place. Any soldier, friend or foe, would immediately button up in the presence of a stranger.

  Sighing, Ben tilted back his chair and sipped morosely at his ale. On the other side of the table, Amelie and Towaal were poring over sheets of notes, family trees, and other scribblings which he’d glanced at and then quickly lost interest in. Understanding the tenuous connections that formed the highborn webs of power was completely outside of Ben’s experience, and he wasn’t in a hurry to get acquainted with the minutia.

  The women ignored him as he rocked his chair back and forth on its rear two legs, his boot on the edge of the table to balance him.

  He sipped the ale again. A light, surprisingly crisp lager. It tasted clean on the palate and had little of the alcoholic burn that would make his head swim by dinner. A suitable ale to sip on while watching your friends work.

  He finished his mug, barely hearing Amelie muttering about how a betrothal between two powerful houses had recently been broken and whethe
r that offered any clues. Ben let the chair fall onto all four legs. He stood and shuffled over to the small ale keg they’d commandeered from the mess hall.

  It was empty.

  Grumbling, Ben set down his tankard and lifted the ale barrel. He turned to tell Amelie he was going for a refill, and then thought better of it. She was engrossed with her work, and interrupting her to say he was getting another barrel of ale in the middle of the day suddenly seemed a bad idea. Instead, he quietly skirted around the paper-covered table and slipped out the door.

  He strode down the hallway, the small keg tucked under his arm. At the end of the hall, a guard nodded at him and then glanced at the keg. Grumbling to himself, Ben kept going, resisting the urge to explain that Rhys had drank most of it the night before. Ben had only had two or three ales so far that morning.

  Finally, after several more chastising looks, he made it into the mess hall. Prior to the midday meal, it was almost empty with only a handful of scullions clustered around a table in the back. The sour-faced barman was behind the bar, hunched over, overseeing his domain. As far as Ben could tell, the man never left. The barman barely looked up as Ben made it across the wide room and set the empty keg on top of the counter.

  “Empty already?” croaked the barman, his voice sounding as near death as his face looked.

  “My friend drank a lot last night,” muttered Ben.

  “Sure, sure,” rasped the barman. He levered himself off his stool and shambled toward a door behind the bar. He gestured for Ben to follow. “If you’re going to go through them so quickly, you can haul it out of storage yourself. They don’t pay me enough to be fetchin’ a keg a day for you.”

  “I understand,” said Ben, darting after the skeletal fellow.

  The storage room was lit by the open door and a filthy window at the other end. The sparse light illuminated row after row, keg after keg of ales, wines, and spirits.