Book 2 Dead Man's Hand: The Knights of the Golden Dragon

by Troy Reaves

  Boremac could not hold back the smile that split his own face as Flora moved to address their host, slapping her husband lightly on his hand. “As much as my Lord Mathos might enjoy that, I could not bring myself to part with her. She has served my house, and now my new lord’s, loyally for most of her life. Her parents are legacy servants and she was the one thing I insisted on taking from my father when I left.”

  “Yes, I can understand. Lord Mathos, I think I could see your position as well. She is untamable, servant or not, and would cause you no end of trouble should you sin against your lady. Perhaps it is best that I am only allowed her pleasurable company on these all too rare visits. Enough chattering about what cannot be. We should speak of business, Lord Mathos. Do you feel the ladies should remain or would you prefer they depart?” Lord Bartem glanced over his shoulder at Fauna who had buried her delicate fingers into his shoulders. “Ow, woman! I leave it up to your lord. Demand no more of me than that. If you can keep your claws out of me, I would greatly prefer you remain.”

  Boremac nodded in acknowledgement though his words did not convey everything he felt about Lord Bartem’s words. “She can be a trial, no doubt, but it is good to find someone she works to please even though she appears to still forget her place. The ladies may remain. What are your intentions moving forward, Lord Bartem?” What Boremac did not say was at the front of his mind, “How can I profit from your plans.”

  “Let us get right to the point. The thief in my dungeon has proven to be nearly impossible to crack. My best man could not pry his lips open when he first joined me and, even when he is drunk, he gives very little indication of his true purpose here. I have gotten only hints and riddles despite my direct personal interrogations when he and I drink and play cards.” Lord Bartem extended his arms across the table and laced his fingers with his palms facing Boremac. The sound of his cracking shoulder blades and knuckles reverberated throughout the dining hall for several moments before he continued. “Lord Mathos, I have not encountered one that appears to be so uniquely suited for breaking the rogue I have managed to capture. Do not think for a moment I had lost my senses enough during our contest that I did not note how easily you deceived me. Please take no offense, it was quite brilliant.”

  “Yes?” Boremac could not restrain his reaction as much as he would have liked and his eyes lidded narrowly with suspicion.

  “Lord Mathos, I have spoken of my need for information to secure my home and no longer live in a state of... concern, shall we say? If one well trained thief can breach my security than how many others know the way he has found? I believe this particular man to have some influence besides being a simple burglar.” Lord Bartem’s face held myriad emotions when he finished; a bit of fear, even some envy, but most of all hope that he had not gravely overestimated his guest. Boremac could only hope Lord Bartem was correct in his estimation of him because the rogue in his host’s dungeon was assuredly playing a game well above Boremac’s own level, of that much he was certain.

  Boremac spoke, full of self-assurance whether he felt it or not. “I will do my best, Lord Bartem. You have been a gracious host, entertaining our needs to a fault. It is the least I can do. Do you want me to see him tonight?” The truth was that Boremac saw opportunity and the sooner he met the mysterious burglar, the better.

  “No. You will need all your wits and constitution when you face him. The guards will be instructed to supply anything you request and follow your orders as if they were my own. Proceed with him as you see fit. Tonight try to rest.” Lord Bartem smiled as if he knew the suggestion would fall on deaf ears, but this time he was mistaken.

  12

  Double Duplicity

  Lord Bartem received his guests at breakfast with his usual grace. Boremac had to admit, despite Flora’s dislike of the man, he had come to admire him after a fashion. Lord Bartem struck him as much like any other man, and better than many he had known, who really wanted no more than pleasant company and a safe home. Boremac envied him on both counts. Breakfast went without event and the lord took them on an extensive tour of his property, even going so far as showing off his bedchamber, of which he seemed proud to a fault. It was decorated in the motif of some foreign land that was not familiar to Boremac, which was saying a lot considering the time he had spent with the archivist studying the surrounding areas and beyond. There were sheer multihued curtains surrounding a four posted bed that could have easily accommodated six people, all lying down and not one touching another. The top layer of covers and the pillows that were everywhere near the rectangular bed’s vast headboard were a deep red with golden threaded markings and trim that looked vaguely archaic to Boremac. The symbols repeated on many of the chests in the room as well. One thing that Boremac did find interesting was that Lord Bartem had no mirror in his bedchamber. This, he felt, must be a sign of nobility and how much they trusted the staff that dressed them. He filed the markings away for the future, thinking he would need to make time to see George again.

  Lord Bartem seemed to think his gardens were the most beautifully kept in all the lands, and Boremac was inclined to agree. The garden held a multitude of various flowering and fruit bearing plants and trees, organized in such a way that no group dominated another and the colors of each transitioned perfectly into one another. Boremac could readily understand the need to keep the gardener responsible for such work. The wall of Lord Bartem’s small keep was dominated by a vine that spread from one great base and appeared to have covered every stone forming the wall on this side. Its gigantic flowers opened wide in full bloom this morning, heavy, with the pistil roughly the size of a child’s hand and a style as long as one of his fingers supporting a bulbous stigma. There were thorns roughly as long and sharp as the hidden daggers some cutpurses kept up their sleeves when working the markets. Each flower was spread well away from the others on the vines, suspended by a thick stalk, softly colored in different shades ranging from a deep red to vibrant indigo with no discernible pattern. “Impressive, is it not! My newest addition and the most impenetrable guardian one could hope to have. The gardener suggested it not long after our little misunderstanding.”

  “What is it?” Boremac was still staring at the plant, about to reach out to stroke one of the flowers when Lord Bartem grabbed his wrist.

  “You do not want to do that. Let me show you something.” Lord Bartem waved back his guests and grabbed a good sized lizard that had the misfortune to be nearby. Their host tossed the creature among the vines on the wall, careful not to let it get impaled on the thorns that seemed to be everywhere. It was obvious he had made such demonstrations in the past, standing back and appearing quite pleased with his aim. The nearest creeping vines began to move, almost like they were anticipating the motion of the lizard now trying to get its bearings and find a way out of the vegetation. Thorns closed in slowly at the tail of the creature while a narrow path ending near one of the flowers higher on the wall opened up just enough for the lizard to slither through. The lizard darted through the narrow path and was scraped by a thorn as it prepared to launch itself back into the undergrowth below. It stopped. Its tongue lolled out of its mouth and it stared at nothing as it was covered by the giant flower that had been awaiting its arrival. The petals of the flower remained over its prey with the thick stem holding it in place. The whole process took just a few moments. “The alchemists tell me it secretes a powerful paralytic oil on its thorns. They tell me the plant’s digestive process, though it takes a long time for something that size, is painless. They sometimes use the oil for medicinal purposes, harvesting the thorns themselves. The plant still requires pollination and does not trouble the bees and such. A scratch from one of those thorns can paralyze a full grown man for several hours. I have heard of instances of a dreamless sleep being induced by too many scrapes. The gardener wears thick leather gloves all the way up to his shoulders with special straps when he trims the plant back from the windows.”

  “This flora is beautiful and cruel. Natur
al beauty often can be. Good to keep you safe if you can control it, I suppose.” Boremac patted Flora gently on the rump as he spoke. “Some are worth the risk, I guess.”

  “I have to agree with you on both points, Lord Mathos.” Lord Bartem sniggered at Boremac’s inference though he did not understand the full implication of it. “We should prepare for a light lunch. You will need all of your abilities and focus when you meet the rogue in my dungeon. I think you will find he has made himself quite comfortable, much to my dismay.”

  Shortly after they had eaten, the twins went to the market quarter. Lord Bartem had wanted to provide an escort but Flora insisted it was unnecessary and the two had left alone. The two lords headed toward the archway near the cooking areas that led into the cold cellar. Boremac admired the casks and wine bottles carefully placed and labelled on great racks that were on every wall of the room. Two lightly armored guards nodded greetings to their master while Boremac noted a young boy prowling around the darker corners of the room. The youngster held a small crossbow at the ready and seemed to take great pride in thoroughly inspecting the spots untouched by torchlight in the cellar. “Any luck today, Cat?” Lord Bartem called to the hunter in a low growling tone.

  Cat answered with a similar tone, though with a pronounced higher pitch than the lord, never stopping his scanning of the corners. “Nah, no luck or vermin. Either they gettin wise or I gone blind. I has not gone blind, so they poking elsewhere. Probably wantin aid in the cupboards if you want I should go and check.”

  “You go on to the cook and tell him I said you needed your lunch. Stay up there as long as you see fit and check all the spots you have seen vermin previously before you come down.” Lord Bartem patted the boy quickly as Cat moved toward the stairs to the kitchen, stopping briefly to sling his crossbow across his shoulder after he had uncocked it and removed the bolt. His familiarity with the weapon was astonishing for one so young, which he demonstrated by disarming the weapon and securing it safely before taking to the stairs, climbing them using both his hands and feet. “That boy has got some grace and speed. One day he will lead a legion of men. It is tough going with him sometimes since his parents passed, but he serves me well. I do my best to have my tutors work with him. They claim the boy is possessed! I know better. I have no trouble with him when I work with him. There is too much potential in him to be wasted, lost in a shroud of ignorance.” Lord Bartem shook his head and ushered Boremac through another stone archway at the head of a narrow hallway leading further into the ground beneath the keep.

  They passed several widely spaced oil lamps before coming to yet another well-crafted stone archway. This one had an iron gate of crisscrossed bars bearing two thick iron hinges at one side. It was buried deep in the stone, and a rectangular lock with four iron dead latches firmly placed in a series of iron forged strike plates that appeared to have been somehow buried into the wall of the archway itself. The lock and hinges were obviously well maintained, showing signs of recent lubrication reflected in the firelight cast by the wooden torches at each corner of the room. Straight across the room was another archway that must have led to the torture chamber. One of the three guards moved to place a thick key into the interior side of the lock at the gate while Lord Bartem placed his own key into the opposite side. The keys slid in unison in opposite directions, causing the four dead locks to retract into the lock itself. Boremac and Lord Bartem entered the dungeon, and the guard who had opened the gate stepped into the hall outside the confines of the gate, exchanging keys with Lord Bartem as he did so. The master turned briefly to secure the gate and, Boremac noted with some dismay, that the door to freedom had been closed on him with little more than a whisper of sound. Lord Bartem must have departed, quite stealthily for a man his size, because Boremac could no longer detect his presence at his shoulder.

  The two cells in the room had no light to speak of, untouched by the torches well away from the cells themselves. Boremac tried with no success to locate the rogue he was supposed to engage. His lidded eyes were shocked completely closed moments later as a gas lantern was lit inside one of the cells. While Boremac stood there, eyes tightly shut, watching the wisps shoot around behind his lids, he heard a quiet voice address him apologetically. “A thousand pardons, master. I thought the lord would have made you aware of my theatrical nature at the least. He will not allow me flash powder so, you know, one must make do.”

  Boremac rubbed his eyes, thinking it might help, and realizing it would not immediately. “How did you do that? I would think the heat alone of such a rapid ignition would shatter the glass of the lamp.”

  The soft male voice spoke up in reply. “Trade secret. Cannot tell. You know something of this I imagine, my lord.”

  Boremac opened his eyes fully at this, decidedly displeased at the turn of the conversation, despite being half blind still. “I know something of the trades. It is important to learn your father’s craft early if you are going to continue to increase the coffers of your estate. Common enough knowledge, I would assume, even to one of your low station, rogue.” Boremac spat the last word as if it tainted his tongue.

  The short man before him behind the bars of his cell giggled, sounding more like a little girl than a full grown man. “No need to be testy, good sir. I meant no harm or insult. I simply wished to take the measure of my opponent. You should be an interesting challenge, lord. I assume you have bested Lord Bartem and so he has sent you to me. Thank the Goddess. He was becoming quite boring.”

  “He is a bit mistaken with his own prowess at many things, it would appear. He has spoken well of you, or at least with an unexpected measure of respect for a common thief.” Boremac took in the man before him as his eyes finally cleared before continuing. “I look forward to matching myself against you.” The rogue in the cell was short and round, hardly what Boremac had expected. His bald pate practically glowed in the lamp light and his clean shaven face gave no hint of his age. He looked like a merchant, with bored eyes of unremarkable gray that hid the man’s keen senses well. Boremac had little doubt that those who encountered him, if they noticed him at all, assumed he was a merchant trader who, to judge by his belly, was doing well. Boremac felt the man was usually favored with little more than a dismissive glance. He was certain that was just the way the rogue liked it, too.

  The rogue’s cell, if one could call it that, was well appointed, with a shelf of books at the back wall, a reading table positioned toward the front corner of the space, and a rug between what appeared to be a very comfortable sleeping cot and the table. The table itself held a small ink jar and quill with an ornate book next to it. The book itself was encased in thick leather and was held closed by a solid book lock formed of some type of metal unfamiliar to Boremac. More interesting, to Boremac at least, was that there appeared to be no way to open the clasp. No keyhole was evident, and the rounded lock at the center of the contraption seemed perfectly smooth at the edges. “I take it your cell was not nearly so comfortable when you arrived?”

  “Goodness, no. I have been here for quite some time and Lord Bartem did not let me start making requests, small ones at first, until his torturer had quit. Poor man! That one could not bear to fail, so he stormed out of his master’s home and even left the tools of his craft behind. I have endured more talented torturers but that brute was the most committed I have met in quite some time.” The rogue looked thoughtful for a moment, as if relishing some fond memory rather than remembering being beaten. “No matter, bruises heal over time and even scars can be removed with the aid of a priest.” The small man brought his attention fully back to Boremac. “We will be here a bit, no doubt. I would prefer you not call me rogue or thief or whatever other slander you might think up. My name is Jun. You are?”

  “Lord Mathos, you may call me sir, if it pleases you.” Boremac smiled, dipping gently in a bow.

  “Yes, Lord Mathos, you say? Never heard of you and I know a lot of people, not to mention places. Where are you from?”

  “
That is not your concern.” Boremac lowered his brow threateningly, tiring of the man’s games. “You know why I am here and I see no reason to waste time on further discourse.”

  “Yes, yes, you are right, of course. Forgive my nature. Always questioning; curiosity will have the best of me one day. That much is certain. I would think we would do well to play at the card table. The table is much roomier than my cell and the drink is closer at hand. More importantly, the chairs are so much more comfortable.” Jun looked at one of the guards still in the room, and then the other. “Lord Mathos, it would please me greatly to be released to the antechamber so we can both pretend at being gentlemen for a while.”

  Boremac turned to the guards. “If Lord Bartem is accustomed to this man’s company at the table here then by all means let him out.” One of the men moved forward to open the lock to the cell but the barred door swung open, seemingly of its own volition, before he had made a step.