by A Van Wyck
The threat had passed. The assassin dove off a roof so high, it would drive one of the Ascended to vertigo. The fact that the assassin was dead was his only comfort.
He’d been dazed and lightheaded, wrestling unconsciousness, when the guards caught up. He’d hardly resisted when they’d hauled him wordlessly away. On the long march down through the bowels of the palace, he’d finally thought to ask where they were going. By then, his teeth were chattering around the question. The only reply had been a firmer grip on his shoulders, as if to keep him from bolting. He’d halfway suspected they were on their way to see some official. Or, perhaps, to view the dead assassin body. Up until they’d shoved him into this tiny cell, he hadn’t had a clue that he was intended to be a prisoner. Only when the bars had clanged shut behind him had he realized they weren’t taking him back to his quarters.
Now I may end up a dead body.
He quickly banished the thought as pure nonsense. This was all just a mistake. He’d tried explaining that to his jailers but he might as well have been talking to the walls.
A distant screech echoed down the long corridor as, somewhere, a heavy door was levered open. He lifted his head from the cradle of his hands. Something new at last! Perhaps this would all get straightened out now. Sound traveled well along these dank tunnels and he could clearly discern two sets of footsteps.
He waited impatiently, rocking back and forth with nerves. While sound might travel well, it did take the scenic route, playing tricks with the acoustics of the passage. An eddy of air from the unseen door stirred the stagnant breath of the cells. His nostrils flared. After bells spent in the sense-deadening stench of the prison, the unmistakable scent of Father Justin came as a godsend. The clean scent rolled ahead of the priest like a comforting wave, washing over him in relief. If the keeper were here, everything would be alright soon.
It felt like forever before the footsteps finally halted outside his cell.
“Are you hurt?”
A worried hand curled around the bars.
Did anyone hurt you? That was the question underlying the priest’s lined face. He shook his head, no.
“Just some scrapes and bruises.” It was easier to be brave when the keeper was nearby.
“Can we get this open?” The priest directed over his shoulder.
“I don’t see why not,” an unfamiliar, cultured voice acquiesced.
There was a rattle of large keys. The lock clicked easily and the heavy door swung open with a rattle.
The keeper swept right up to him, a gentle hand settling on his shoulder. All lingering anxiety fled at the touch. To anyone watching, the closed eyes and bowed head might look like relief or prayer. But he felt the tingle of streaming as the priest examined him. Lined eyes tightened further as his lie was discovered.
“You are most definitely not alright,” the keeper informed him.
In the light of the overwhelming evidence, he rushed to reassure.
“It’s not as bad as it looks. Hungry and tired is about all.”
“You look a mess.”
“I’m fine. Really. All this,” he indicated his sorry state, “is from chasing the assassin.”
“Alleged assassin.”
The unknown speaker forced his attention, unwillingly, from the keeper. The second man who’d entered his cell was past middle age and looked like he might like something to lean on, if only he could find a clean surface. The man was peculiarly thin. This skin stretched tightly across a sharp skull, reducing what might otherwise have been wrinkles to a discolored delta of creases. Silken robes, official and expensive, hung on his scarecrow frame.
The exasperated glance Father Justin directed at the man dashed itself upon a wide, humorless grin. With a start, he realized he’d seen a grin like it before. Father Trosis, back at the Temple, had had a stuffed, man-eating lizard suspended from the rafters of his classroom. The terror of the Summer Isles, beautifully preserved by a master taxidermist, had had a leer just like that.
“Marco,” the keeper said, not letting up the stern regard for the lizard-toothed official, “this is Invigilator Nestor Reed. He is the chief investigator in this matter.”
He stared at the smiling man.
“Alleged assassin?” he couldn’t help blurting.
“Regrettably,” Nestor Reed drawled, not sounding regretful at all.
Oh, no.
This was one of the worries that had ended with his dinner on the cell floor. He’d accepted that the guards had been blind to the threat of the buzzing cloud but he’d been certain they’d been able to see the assassin once pulled from the smoke. If it turned out they hadn’t…
“But,” he tried, his carefully worded arguments falling into an instant shambles in the face of that pointed grin, “there were witnesses! The guards must have seen…”
What? Me pulling an assassin out of my ear?
He bit his lip.
The invigilator’s smile widened as he floundered.
“The guards,” the man began, “corroborate some elements of your story–”
He blinked.
His story? He hadn’t even talked to anyone yet!
“–in that, for reasons unknown, you were in the corridor outside the royal apartments–”
He sucked in a hurried breath to say he’d been invited but the Invigilator held up a forestalling hand. Thin, overlong fingers effectively pinched his lips together from five paces away.
“–that you took it upon yourself to destroy valuable palace property – a priceless artifact, very sad – and that you thereafter attempted to flee from the guards who tried to apprehend you, grievously injuring a number of them in the process. I’ve already conducted interviews with them all. None recall seeing anyone other than you up on that level.” The invigilator paused to let that sink in. “Thereafter, you entered some unused apartments, climbed from the window and led the guards a merry chase across the rooftops before finally being apprehended.”
Apprehended? More like found collapsed and moments from unconsciousness.
He grasped at the straws of his suddenly shredded defense.
“What about the two guards who were there when I… spotted the assassin?” he amended mid sentence, suddenly loathe to mention magic. The man already had trouble believing there had been an assassin. Insisting the assassin had been magically invisible and breezing along the ceiling in a puff of smoke, was unlikely to help his case.
“Ah, yes… As you may recall,” the man’s eyes flashed disconcertingly but the moment of humor spread no further than that, “both suffered disconcerting head injuries, making their testimony unreliable. Your doing, I believe.”
He ducked his head guiltily as he remembered kicking the two guards. He hadn’t thought he’d hit them hard enough to concuss them but then, he’d been panicked. He really hoped they were alright.
“They weren’t the only guards there,” he pointed out, unwilling to concede the point. “Others were right behind me. I’m sure they saw the assassin.”
“Why would you think that?” the invigilator put in, genuine curiosity overlaying his smile.
“There was all that shouting,” he tried. How did you describe the reaction of someone who’d just had an armed killer drop, quite literally, on their heads?
“No doubt!” the invigilator chuckled – a startling sound from the decorous man. “Apparently you delivered a stunning performance.” There was that flash of humor again. “Hmm. I’d be very interested to know,” the invigilator transferred that lizard regard to the keeper, “just what school of writing you attended. Was unarmed combat part of the curriculum?”
The keeper weathered the scrutiny calmly, expression giving nothing away.
“What,” he went on doggedly, regaining the invigilator’s attention, “about the guards who came charging up the north corridor? Weren’t they trying to cut the assassin off from the east passage?”
“They were trying to cut you off from the east passage,” the man return
ed without missing a beat.
“There was an assassin!” he insisted.
The thin man leaned forward eagerly, smile hitching impossibly.
“Is that a confession?”
“A con… what? No!”
“Nestor!” the keeper objected with a scowl.
The man and settled back against the bars.
“No matter,” the invigilator went on, holding his spindly hands up peaceably. “While a confession would be nice–” he made nice sound like a dirty word, “–it certainly isn’t necessary. We have all we need.”
The keeper huffed in exasperation.
“To do what?” he asked hesitantly.
This was turning out even worse than he’d imagined.
The invigilator regarded him ambivalently.
“At present,” he said, “the charges are: trespassing; destruction of palace property; and assault upon the Royal Guard. Even without adding charges of conspiracy to murder a member of the royal family, I’m sure I could make a compelling argument for the death penalty.”
He felt his mouth drop open, his mind a large, horrified blank.
“Nestor!” the keeper shrilled severely, eyebrows drawing down into a visage of such disapproval the invigilator should have been reduced to an apologetic heap. But the man seemed unfazed. The two of them held each other’s eyes for a long moment.
“Oh, very well,” the invigilator drawled, unabashed. Somehow, despite the sudden tone of extreme boredom, the grin lingered.
With folded arms the man turned to address him directly, “Since you are, at present, a member of a diplomatic delegation, we are forced to observe your diplomatic immunity. And since you are not a Renali citizen and therefore cannot, strictly speaking, commit treason…” the man shrugged, looking disappointed. “You will be remanded into the custody of your immediate superior.” Lazy eyes flicked towards the keeper.
It took a moment for that to penetrate.
“I’m free to go?”
He couldn’t quite believe it. Diplomatic immunity or no, there had to be a limit to political courtesy. The man had just accused him of conspiracy to murder a princess of the realm! Surely that deserved more than a night in jail and a stern talking to…?
What am I thinking!?! He backtracked desperately. Be glad you’re not being force-marched up to the noose!
Oh, no wait, said the part of him that was never far from his books and scrolls, they behead people in the Kingdom.
The relief was so all encompassing he struggled to stifle an ill-timed guffaw.
“Conditionally.”
That cut his mirth short.
“What conditions?” he tried, suspicious.
“You will speak to no one of last night’s events. You have never seen nor heard of any assassin. You have never been to the royal apartments. And, as a courtesy,” the way the man pronounced courtesy made it sound like command, “you will confine yourself to your quarters until further notice. I trust that is acceptable?” This last was directed at the keeper, who nodded.
He felt slightly dizzy at this unexpected turn of events. He was lost in politics he clearly didn’t understand. It was an unfamiliar mire, one that had come close to swallowing him. He clutched at what he knew to be true.
“There was an assassin,” he insisted quietly. He took a deep breath before adding, “He used magic to make himself invisible.”
Said out loud, it sounded farfetched, even to him.
“Ludicrous,” the invigilator scoffed, looking away. But the spider-webbed face registered no surprise. The derision had come too close on the heels of this new information.
He already knew…
He looked to the keeper for confirmation. If the invigilator were hiding knowledge of an assassin, Father Justin would know. The priest’s expression was closed, his agate eyes guarded. Catching Marco’s gaze, the priest shook his head minutely.
He obediently buttoned his lip. There were obviously undercurrents here he couldn’t comprehend.
“Just out of curiosity,” the invigilator threw in, “how did you get from the window to the roof? I inspected the wall in question myself. Sheer stone. No rope or other device was found on the wall, on the grounds below or on your person. So how did you manage the climb?”
He wasn’t surprised at all to discover that the handholds had vanished along with the alleged assassin. In the face of this new line of questioning, he looked to the keeper for guidance, unsure how he should answer.
The keeper answered for him, looking away from the invigilator to hide the mischief kindling in those normally serene eyes.
“Alleged climb,” the priest supplied.
There was a beat of silence.
“Quite.” The invigilator seemed unaccountably delighted at this turnabout. “Very well.” The man stood away from the bars.
“I can go?” He tried to confirm, daring to believe.
“One last condition,” the invigilator added. The scrawny man closed with two deliberate steps, moving much too spryly for a man of advanced years. Leaning until their noses almost touched, he fought to avoid contact with that strange skin. The invigilator breathed minted breath on him. “The name Dailill Avrintir Stentoric shall not cross your lips or your mind again. Understood?”
His mouth gone suddenly dry, he eyed the Invigilator’s predatory looking teeth. Suddenly the man-eating lizard comparison seemed all too realistic. He nodded hurriedly.
“Nestor!” Father Justin’s voice climbed through disapproval and into shock in the space of a single word. The invigilator straightened quickly.
“Justin,” the man nodded in farewell and swept out of the little cell without another word. The keeper shook his head in dismay, massaging a worried brow with thumb and finger.
“Keeper,” he said, finding his voice again. “I swear there really was an assas–”
The keeper held up a cautionary finger to silence him, the movement more abrupt than anything he’d ever seen from the priest.
“Not here, Marco.”
With the invigilator’s departure, the keeper’s expression had changed. Worry that hadn’t been there before spun taut lines around eyes and mouth. The priest eyed him silently for a moment, quietly contemplating. He suddenly realized he’d never seen either irritation or anger mar his mentor’s mien and wondered if he would recognize them if he did. He watched the frown that slowly grew down the keeper’s brow with some trepidation. Streaming, more prolonged and thorough this time, tingled along his scalp and trickled from his spine into his extremities.
“I really am fine,” he tried to defend his earlier statement. But his voice sounded weak, even to him. The keeper said nothing, merely regarding him with an unreadable expression.
“Let’s get you cleaned up,” the priest finally commanded, leading the way out of the cell. He followed obediently.
A quartet of stone-faced guards shepherded them up the narrow stairs and from the cells. There, they were handed off to two different guards. They were guided through corridor after twisting corridor until he was thoroughly lost again. The endless stairs challenged his stiff and sore legs, slowing their progress. It seemed to take ages before they reached the airy, well lit corridors he recognized as the palace proper. It took longer still before he thought he knew where they were.
Throughout, the keeper hovered soundlessly at his elbow, ready to catch him should he stumble but seeming otherwise preoccupied. This, he realized, might be the longest he’d ever seen his mentor’s face devoid even of the inkling of a smile. It looked unnatural.
He fretted, sure he knew what had the keeper so preoccupied. All the talk of diplomatic immunity and political courtesy had brought home the fact that his actions may very well have snuffed the summit. He tried unsuccessfully to catch the priest’s eye, hoping fervently the keeper wasn’t mad at him. The silence stretched painfully until, finally, he couldn’t take it anymore.
“Father,” he began, “I–”
But the keeper forestal
led him with a warding gesture, mouth pulled down in disapproval.
Hanging his head, they walked the rest of the way in silence. He recognized the carpet under his feet when they reached their apartments. Their escort took up positions outside on either side of the door. With a guilty start, he realized he’d effectively placed the keeper under guard as well. Shame burned him.
The priest closed the door behind them, not looking at him, before moving toward the Temple-made glass tea set on the little stand in the corner. Though everything in the palace was provided for them, the keeper had insisted on being able to brew his own tea. The keeper believed in tea almost as strongly as he did in the Temple.
He waited apprehensively in the middle of the room, eyeing his toes as the keeper busied himself with the clinking ceramic stove and pot.
“Well,” the priest finally said, turning around, “that could have gone worse.”
The thin smile hanging on his mentor’s face was like the grace of the goddess breaking through the clouds. The kindly light had rekindled in his mentor’s eyes.
“You’re not mad?” he blurted.
“Mad?” The keeper’s brows rose. “No, I’m not mad. Relieved, yes. And perhaps a little proud. And for a while, very, very worried. What were you thinking Marco?” The keeper entreated him. “You could have died.”
What had he been thinking? Had he been thinking?
“Better me…” the words slipped out in a mumble.
“Say again?” the priest demanded, unable to hear.
“Better me than her,” he spoke up, ducking his head again. He peeked at the priest through his fringe.
The keeper looked momentarily taken aback. Then laughed humorlessly.
“You are so young, it is sometimes easy to forget that you were brought up to be selfless and self-sacrificing. They are qualities you expect of more mature men.” The keeper’s head shook in wonderment. “You are a true child of Helia, Marco, and a much better man than I.”