Chapter Seven
“Her name is Lorella Solens,” Burke said. “She claims to be a medium. Talks to dead people. Says the dead talk back.” The look on his face gave Ridge and Rett a clear understanding of just what Burke thought of those claims. “Normally, that wouldn’t be my business. But we received a tip from one of our spies in Duke Barton’s household. He’s worried that Solens is exerting an unhealthy influence on the Duke.”
“Who does the Duke want to talk to that’s dead?” Ridge asked.
“His two children. Boy and a girl, age ten and twelve. Died last year in the fever that went through upcountry. From what I heard, the Duke nearly died as well but recovered. His wife is said to have lost her mind in grief over them. She never leaves her room.”
“So you want us to look into it, and if she’s taking advantage of the Duke, stop her?” Rett frowned. “It doesn’t exactly seem like the kind of thing we usually kill people for. Wouldn’t an arrest serve, if she’s a fraud?”
Burke shook his head. “Duke Barton’s lands lie at an important crossroads, and his holdings include a key bridge and a ferry across the river. Those are strategically important, and cannot be compromised, for the safety of the kingdom.”
“How does the Duke wanting to hear from his dead children threaten the bridge and road?” Ridge asked.
“My spy’s report suggests that the medium is steering the Duke to make decisions and alliances that may not be in his best interests—and may be harmful to the crown.”
“He’s asking his dead children to advise him on political matters?” Rett asked, skepticism clear in his voice.
“She’s tricky. Never comes out and says what she wants him to do, but the ‘children’ supposedly pass along information they’ve heard beyond the Veil, like having an inside source. Barton might even think he’s being steered by the gods,” Burke replied.
“Is there a connection to the Witch Lord?” Rett asked.
Burke shrugged. “Not that I know about. Doesn’t mean there isn’t one. Barton would be an asset, given the crossings he controls, if it ever came to a fight.”
“How much leeway do we have?” Ridge asked.
Burke looked as if he barely restrained himself from rolling his eyes. “As much as you usually have. That’s why I’m giving this assignment to the two of you. If she’s not what the spy thinks she is, don’t make the kill. Find out everything you can.”
“And if she’s not dangerous? Can we let her walk away?” Rett pressed.
Burke gave him a cold, level glare. “Yes. But if your assessment turns out to be wrong—”
“We get sent back to make things right,” Ridge finished. “We’ll figure it out.”
###
“It always rains in the West Country,” Rett muttered as they rode toward Ranford.
“Place ought to be an ocean, with how much water comes down,” Ridge agreed.
They hunched against the cold rain that beat down on their leather coats and soaked their trousers. Although his hat kept the worst of the weather away from Ridge’s face, an icy drop slithered down his neck, under his collar, and ran the length of his spine.
“Not too much farther,” Rett said, lifting his head enough to regard the signpost at the next crossroads.
Caralocia and the seaport sprawled across enough territory that many people born there lived their whole lives without traveling elsewhere. Ridge and Rett had seen most of the larger cities in the kingdom as well as its most important castles and manors due to the nature of their work, but the thinly-populated farming regions gave them little reason to visit. The more ambitious nobility, those who sought to advance their visibility and position with King Kristoph, either held lands close to Caralocia or found houses in the city so they could spend their time at court.
Out here, the palace and the harbor seemed a lifetime away. The country nobility might be just as wealthy as their more city-focused peers, but they prized independence from the crown and took their responsibilities as landholders seriously. That didn’t mean there weren’t schemes and gossip as with the crowd at court, but the maneuvering appeared to be more practical, focused on tangibles like acquiring the best breeding stock or finest horses, or cultivating the most successful harvest.
“That’s the Barton manor?” Rett asked, with a tilt of his head toward a massive, stately home on the highest hill in sight. Broadmoor Manor had been in the Barton family for generations, a gift from a grateful king in times long past. Ridge had been surprised to hear Barton’s name come up from Burke. While some of the nobility were renowned for their scandals and lack of restraint, the Barton name was mentioned so rarely that Ridge had needed to look up the family in genealogy manuscripts.
“The latest one,” Ridge replied. “It’s been replaced and added on to over the years. Burned a couple of times, besieged once or twice too.”
Rett scanned the fields that stood deep in mud, their main crops for the year harvested, and a sparse seeding of hay struggling to grow in their place. “Seems a bit rural for a siege.”
“The Dornan River is just a few miles that direction,” Ridge said. “The ferry there is the only way across for fifty miles up or down. And the two main roads that span the kingdom cross just a bit north of here, still in Barton’s lands. Not to mention rich farmland, and a kingdom has to eat.”
“That ‘strategic importance’ Burke went on about only matters if someone’s challenging control of the kingdom,” Rett countered. “Do you think Burke believes the Witch Lord is preparing for a coup?”
Ridge shrugged. “Maybe the potential is there, in the long run. Not immediately. Unless we’ve all been very wrong about how much support he’s got.”
Rett shook his head. “I don’t think we’re that out of touch. Burke’s good, and the fact that he’s giving us a lot of rope to keep looking into the Witch Lord when Kristoph’s dismissed him as a threat proves that Burke doesn’t rule out an enemy until he’s sure it’s not going to be a problem.”
The market town of Dolson grew up around Landria’s busiest crossroads, the main arteries through the kingdom that carried the lifeblood of trade. Farmers urged their oxen or cart horses on with heavy loads of winter vegetables or ripe apples. Traders from all corners of the land and beyond traveled with wagons full of treasures. Peddlers and their carts vied for room with penitents traveling by foot from one religious shrine to another. Most found some reason to pause in Dolson—for food, lodging, or supplies. By the look of the town, travelers had been very good for business.
The two assassins took a room at the inn and saw to their horses before tramping into the pub soaking wet, chilled through, and overdue for dinner. Rett’s stomach growled at the smell of fresh bread and venison stew. Ridge heard and chuckled, though he felt just as hungry.
A tired-looking woman came to their table, a pitcher of ale in one hand and tankards in the other. “You’ll be wanting the stew?” she asked, in a voice raw from repeating the same questions, straining to be heard over the rowdy conversations.
“Stew, ale, and bread will do us fine,” Ridge replied with a smile that did not seem to register with the harried server.
“Brought the ale,” she replied, clunking down the tankards and filling them to the brim. “What brings you this way?”
“We heard tell of a woman hereabouts who can talk to ghosts,” Rett replied, managing a soulful look that Ridge guessed had served him well in his younger days as a pickpocket in Caralocia’s alleys. “Just lost someone close to us, and well, you can imagine…”
Despite her weariness, the woman favored Rett with a sympathetic glance. “I can. Lost my sister just last year. But I’m not one to chase after the dead when the living have more than their share of problems.”
“Have you heard about her? The medium?” Ridge asked.
The server cast a glance over her shoulder as someone gave a shout from the kitchen, and muttered a curse under her breath. “I’m coming,” she growled, though the person wh
o shouted couldn’t hear her reply above the din. The woman returned her attention to Ridge and Rett.
“I’ve heard. Mixed things. Some say she can, and some say she can’t. Maybe it depends on what someone hoped the dead would say, whether they believe in her or not. But the Duke believes, so I imagine she don’t rightly care what the rest of us think!” she added with a raspy laugh.
Rett watched her retreat into the crowd. He took a sip of the ale, and his brows rose in appreciation. “This is actually damn fine.”
Ridge chuckled. “Maybe that explains why we almost couldn’t get a seat. Hope the food is just as good.”
A shouted curse behind them made both men tense. Two of the patrons near the bar got into a shoving match, with the bartender stepping in just after the first blows were struck. Ridge shifted, tempted to give the barkeep a hand, but Rett grabbed him by the arm and pulled him back down. “Not our problem,” Rett hissed.
Ridge reminded himself that not drawing attention to themselves would serve them best, but after the long, dull ride he was aching for an outlet. Reluctantly, he turned his attention back to his ale and admired the bowls of rich broth with thick chunks of venison, onions, and potatoes the server brought them.
“You’re no fun,” he growled at Rett.
Rett rolled his eyes. “Bar fights stopped being ‘fun’ a long time ago. I don’t need any more bruises. The job keeps me well supplied.”
“You’re just still sore about that bottle.”
“The one that left me a scar that looks like a giant bite on one side of my ass?” Rett shot back. “You didn’t get an ass full of broken glass. They just hit you over the head—which means it didn’t do any damage at all.”
Ridge couldn’t resist a snicker. “You’ve got to admit, the guy I hit had it coming.”
“Not exactly a fair fight, even if you did let him off easy,” Rett retorted.
“Not fair? He had to have been half a head taller and a stone or two heavier!”
“Which goes back to the wisdom of starting a fight,” Rett remarked, spearing a chunk of venison with his fork. “I’m still of the opinion that anything short of horse thievery, we overlook. Especially if it’s not our horses.”
“He cheated me at cards.”
“I think what you meant to say is that he cheated you while you were cheating him,” Rett replied over a mouthful of food. “Because I know how you play cards. But you’re missing the point. If you had taken the man one-on-one, I would have been happy to sit back and charge admission to watch the bloodshed, since I know you can take care of yourself. But no, you had to get me involved, and I ended up picking bits of bottle out of my seat with a long ride the next day.”
“I said I was sorry.”
“Cold comfort,” Rett said, shaking his head.
“Admit it—they’re still probably talking about that fight,” Ridge prodded, more because he enjoyed annoying his partner than out of pride. Rett was right; he shouldn’t have picked a fight with a local, although the brawl had come at the end of their job, with nothing to tie them to either the argument or the disappearance of a corrupt sheriff whose abuses had finally reached the notice of the king.
“I’m sure they are, which might be a problem if we ever have to go back there for a job,” Rett replied.
“Not like you didn’t take a swing at that man in the town that had the awful beer—the stuff that tasted like puke.”
“He was trying to steal my money! And doing it badly, I might add.” Rett grinned.
They went quiet for a few minutes, enjoying the stew and the freshly baked bread. Nothing in the pub seemed amiss, and when Ridge opened up his Sight, he saw no traces of the Witch Lord’s hold on anyone in the room. Not that he had expected to; the Witch Lord tended to reserve his touch for a more exclusive crowd—the nobles, and aristocracy who could advance his interests. Still, Ridge did not pick up a hint even of the kind of stain he had found on some of the Witch Lord’s minions. That let him relax, just a fraction.
The bar fight resolved without the need for anyone but the very large, muscular tavern master’s involvement, and the patrons went back to their own affairs. When the woman returned with another pitcher of ale, Rett broke out his best smile.
“Where would we find the woman who talks to ghosts?” he asked. “We’ve come a long way, and we’d like to see what we think of her for ourselves.”
The server frowned. “Suit yourself. But don’t blame me if you lose all your coin for a few pretty words.” She gave directions, still glowering. “Just remember, I warned you. And mind this—she doesn’t open until nine bells, so there’s no point running off without breakfast.”
Ridge and Rett thanked her and left extra coins with their payment before heading up to the room they had reserved. When Ridge opened the door and lit the lantern from the light in the hallway, he sighed. The room looked cramped and stuffy, with one sagging bed, a chair, and washstand, along with a chamber pot of dubious cleanliness. Still, they had stayed in worse places, and since one of them stood watch while the other slept, the accommodations would suit them fine.
“When I get old, I want my own bed when I travel,” Ridge grumbled.
“People like us don’t get old,” Rett replied, tossing his small bag near the foot of the bed. It held weapons and maps, along with anything they did not dare to leave in their saddlebags. “So enjoy what you have back at our rooms in the city. It’ll have to do.”
Ridge walked to the window and looked out. By now, the town had grown quiet and sleepy, with the tradespeople, merchants, and farmers waiting for dawn to begin their chores again. “Do you think it’s possible?” he asked quietly, staring into the night.
Rett looked up. “Think what’s possible? That Lorella is working for the Witch Lord?” He shrugged. “I guess so.”
Ridge shook his head. “Not what I meant. Do you think she might really talk to the dead?” He did not turn. It was easier to speak his thoughts aloud without making eye contact.
“Maybe,” Rett allowed. “But I’m more in agreement with the serving woman. Let the dead be. We’ve got enough problems with the living.”
Ridge tried to pick out the stars through the wavy glass and the reflection of the lanterns. “It could be nice if it were true,” he replied. “Ask questions. Get answers.”
Rett leaned against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest. “Then our job would never be over because Burke would have us interrogating corpses. As for anyone else, I’m glad that the people I knew who died are gone. They weren’t anything but trouble. Who do you want to talk to?”
Ridge shifted uncomfortably. “My mother, maybe. I was so young when she died; I didn’t really understand what was happening. Never got to say goodbye.”
Rett nodded. “All right. I can see that. But given what we do, I’d be more afraid we’d get an earful from every mark we killed who would be out to convince us they were really innocent.”
Being one of the king’s Shadows meant status—and nightmares. To most of the kingdom, the Shadows were a dark legend, used to warn people away from breaking the law. “Be good, or the Shadows will get you,” was a warning Ridge had overheard more than once. Yet the average citizen—and even the average lawbreaker—had little to fear from the Shadows, unless their deeds threatened king and kingdom. The king’s guards dealt with common criminals. Shadows only emerged to deal with those whose crimes or status became a matter for the crown’s concern.
Still, the duties left a mark on those who carried them out. Rett hadn’t been kidding about Shadows not having to worry about old age. Few lived long, struck down by a job gone wrong, or just as often, by their own hand. No matter how righteous the kill, dealing out death scarred. Both Ridge and Rett woke in the night, soaked in sweat, remembering the past. The satisfaction Ridge felt in defending King Kristoph seemed hollow at those times, when even the strongest whiskey could not blot away the bloodstains.
“Stop thinking,” Rett counseled, gripping
Ridge’s shoulder. “Let the ghosts go. We have work to do.”
###
Since Lorella didn’t open shop until ninth bells in the morning, Ridge and Rett headed over at ten in the evening, easily breaking in through the back door. The old two-story building leaned to the right as if its builders had too much beer the day they raised the walls. The medium’s storefront opened onto a side street, around the corner from a cobbler and a bakery.
The sign read, “Fortunes.” Curtains covered the windows where another kind of shop would have displayed its wares. The store was dark, but lights glowed in the apartment on its second floor. Ridge wondered whether Lorella lived over her shop, or if not, whether the tenant ever complained of being bothered by ghosts.
Rett lit two candles, handing one to Ridge. They moved carefully through a back room filled with pieces of cast-off furniture, and a few crates of odds and ends. The front room looked like a parlor, comfortable in a shabby way, with a high-backed chair and a small, stiff-looking couch on one side, and a circular table with four wooden chairs on the other.
Ridge opened his Sight but sensed nothing more than a persistent, vague uneasiness as if he were being watched. He recognized the unfocused glaze in his friend’s eyes as Rett sought his magic. Rett shook his head, indicating he had learned nothing. So far, Rett’s visions had also been absent, meaning they had to uncover whatever was to be learned the hard way.
“Who’s there?” a woman called out, her voice angry and defiant. “There’s nothing to steal. Get out of my house.”
Ridge and Rett remained still. Ridge had drawn his knife, but he hoped he would not have to use it. Footsteps on the stairs told them the speaker edged closer, and Ridge bet she was armed with something. They blew out the candles and set them on a table. Only moonlight lit the room, filtered through the top of the window above the curtains. Out of long practice, Rett went left, and Ridge went right, presenting two targets instead of one.
Assassin's Honor (Assassins of Landria Book 1) Page 8