by Robert Evert
“Ugh! It stinks! What is it?”
“Never mind about that. You’ll feel much better in the morning. Just don’t get any into your eyes. You sure you’re okay? Did you get a good look at who did this? Maybe we should get the constable.”
“No!” Natalie glanced about for something to wipe her face with. “No constables. Besides, they wouldn’t care. What’s one more beaten woman?”
Sir Edris knelt in front of her, but Natalie averted her gaze.
“They’ll care,” he said, “because I care. Now—did you see them clearly, can you describe them?”
Natalie wrestled with the urge to tell them what had actually happened.
Reg touched her shoulder. “Nat? You okay?”
“I didn’t get a good look at them,” she said flatly. “It all happened too fast. They were on me and, and…I don’t want to talk about it, okay?”
Natalie could feel Sir Edris looking at her. He patted her knee.
“Very well. But if there’s anything we can do for you, Nat, don’t hesitate to ask. Understand?”
Natalie’s blackened eyes filled with tears. She nodded, not trusting herself to say anything.
Sir Edris turned to Reg. “What did you find out?”
“I talked to several of our people, and everyone says the same thing. Nobody’s found the harp yet.”
Sir Edris left Natalie’s side—much to her relief.
“That’s because it wasn’t buried with Balen’s grandson, like we’d all thought. Blast it!” He pounded his fist on a table. “If the grandson didn’t have the harp, he most likely never found it when Balen died.”
Natalie pulled an old shirt out of her pack and began to wipe the slimy medicine from her face.
“You should leave that on,” Sir Edris told her. “Honestly, it’ll help.”
Begrudgingly, Natalie stopped.
“He could’ve sold the harp,” Reg offered.
“No. Somebody would be exhibiting it—hell, they’d be turning it in to their king!”
They both fell silent for a moment.
“Well…” said Reg, “what if he didn’t want people to know he’d gotten rid of it? Maybe he had it melted down.”
“But the smelter would have surely known what he was doing. Everybody knew that harp, and I doubt any goldsmith would have been willing to destroy it. Think about what would’ve happened to him if the king had heard.”
Sir Edris resumed pacing, while Reg stared vaguely through the window.
“No…” Sir Edris said. “My gut says Balen hid the harp before he died. He gave most of his things away just so his grandson wouldn’t inherit any of it.”
“So he hid the harp to prevent the grandson from selling it, or melting it down.”
“Exactly. But the question is: where? Where would Balen have hidden that miserable thing?”
“He wouldn’t have buried it in some hole.”
“Right. He’d have done something more respectful.” Sir Edris fiddled with the pommel of his longsword. “He’d have put it somewhere meaningful, not just any old place. Somewhere safe.”
Brago’s folded-up parchment was sticking out of Natalie’s pack. She stared at it, palms sweating.
“I…I really appreciate everything you two have done for me,” she said softly. “I hope you know that. I’m very, very grateful—for the clothes, and the money, and the help.” She pointed to her slimy forehead. “For everything.”
Sir Edris smiled, warm and fatherly. “Helping people is what knights do, young lady. Besides”—his smile broadened—“you’re my favorite daughter.”
The burning sensation in Natalie’s stomach worsened.
“I think you should stay with us for a bit, Nat,” Sir Edris went on. “Would you like that? Go on a bit of an adventure with two battle-hardened men? Think you could stand us after we’ve been lying in mud for weeks, reeking like pigs?”
Natalie groaned.
Sir Edris knelt before her again. “Are you okay? Does it hurt?”
“I’m fine. I—” Natalie couldn’t bear to look at him. She felt like vomiting. “I’m not feeling well.”
He brushed the hair from her eyes. “Then why don’t you go lie down? We’ll bring you something to eat in a bit.”
“I’m—I’m fine. It’s just that—”
“Perhaps there’s a vault somewhere.” Reg surveyed the darkness through the window. “You know, tucked away and forgotten behind some wall.”
Sir Edris shook his head. “No, Balen wasn’t the vault type. Besides, where would it be? By all accounts, he lived in a hovel, and that was torn down when Lord Kettering bought his land. They would have found it then.”
Natalie’s trembling hand drew the blood-covered map from her pack. “A-a-actually…”
“True,” said Reg. “But he had things he treasured, right? His instruments, for example. What would he have done with them? He must have kept them safe somewhere.”
Sir Edris shook his head again. “He gave those away. Hundreds of Balen lutes and lyres are stashed in various private collections. He’d play them a few times, then give them to children on the street.”
“Actually,” Natalie said a bit more strongly, “I found something.”
“Did he have any close friends?” asked Reg. “Maybe the lord of the region, what was his name?”
“Lord Jeffery, I believe. But no, I don’t think he was close to any nobility. He was more interested in being with the peasants. In fact, he used to teach music to the poor farmers’ kids.”
“He wouldn’t hand the harp over to a peasant, though,” mused Reg.
“No, indeed.” Sir Edris scratched his chin. “I have to say, I’m at a complete loss with this one. We must be missing something.”
Natalie coughed. “Actually, I…”
They looked over at her.
“Go on, Nat,” said Reg. “Say whatever you think. You’re part of our merry party now.”
“Actually…” Natalie’s trembling hand rattled the parchment.
Sir Edris took it from her.
Natalie’s throat closed, her mouth going dry.
Reg peered around the knight’s arm. “What is it?”
Sir Edris studied the paper. “It’s a sketch of the Kettering place.”
Reg pointed to the hills marked on the map. “What’s there?”
“Nothing. Leastways, nothing now. It’s a ridge overlooking where the town used to be. Perhaps there was an old keep there.” He squinted at the words written in the margin, splatters of Natalie’s blood nearly blotting them out. “Secret vault,” he read. “Below dungeon.” He scrutinized the parchment a bit longer. “Nat, where did you get this?”
“Bed!” Natalie started to sob. “Under the bed!”
“Is this one of the papers you found in Brago’s saddlebags?” asked Reg.
Natalie nodded, unable to face them, tears streaming down her battered face.
Sir Edris slid a muscled arm around her. “Don’t worry, dearest daughter. Better late than never! In fact”—he carefully kissed her cheek—“I think you’ve given us the one clue we’ve been missing! Oh, don’t cry…we’re not mad.”
Natalie continued to sob, body convulsing in Sir Edris’s arms.
“Reg,” he whispered, “do we have any of that brandy left?”
“I’ll get it.”
Reg poured some brandy into a tin cup and handed it to Sir Edris.
“Here, my girl. Take a little drink of this. It’ll help everything.”
Natalie shook her head in protest, but took a sip anyway when Sir Edris put the cup to her lips.
“Take the rest,” he said, pressing it into her hands.
Natalie finished off what was left. “I’m so, so sorry.”
“Shhh…” Sir Edris rocked her. “Just relax. Everything will be fine, trust me.”
Again, Natalie shook her head, the slimy medicine from her forehead smearing across his clean shirt. She struggled against his embrace, but the knigh
t held her tight.
“Shhh.”
“I’m sorry,” Natalie whispered.
“That’s okay.” Sir Edris stroked her back as he rocked. “Just relax. Everything’s fine.”
“I’m so, so sorry…”
Chapter Thirty
When Natalie awoke, she was lying in a featherbed big enough for two people of even Sir Edris’s size. She must have been crying in her sleep; the satin pillow was damp with tears, snot, and dried blood. Outside of the decrepit house, carts rattled by, horses whinnied, and men called to one another. Inside, everything was eerily still. She sat up.
Yellow rays of a late morning sun streamed across a piece of paper on the nightstand. She could read the knight’s bold pen strokes even with bruised and swollen eyes.
Dearest Nat,
There are many things to say, and very little time in which to say them. Young master Reginald and I are off to you-know-where. Victory is at hand—I can smell it! So we cannot tarry any longer. Yet, I wish to tell you that I’ll be thinking about you with a kind heart. Thank you for giving us what we needed to win the quest. Take this, and ride on to good fortune and a happy life. It’s been a pleasure being your illegitimate father. I hope I’ll have a daughter as fiery and as determined as you. Until we meet again, yours warmly, E.
P.S. Put these somewhere safe and not all in one place. Thieves are everywhere.
Judging by the stack of coins against which the note was propped, Sir Edris had just made Natalie a very wealthy girl. But she merely sat in bed, blinking at the letter, too emotionally drained to cry anymore.
Her thoughts drifted back to Artis. If she rescued him quickly enough, she could race to Lord Kettering’s summer estate to warn Sir Edris and Reg that the map was a fake. But where to begin?
What was the name of that tavern Artis had gone to? The Goblin’s Head? It sounded delightful. Still, she’d start her search there.
She glanced at Sir Edris’s letter. Would he forgive her when he discovered the map was a fake? Probably. He’d understand Artis’s life was more important than some stupid quest. But her betrayal ate away at her. She had to first save Artis, then she’d make it up to Sir Edris and Reg…somehow.
The sun was approaching noon; time was slipping away.
In the kitchen, an enormous breakfast waited for her: eggs, pork, biscuits, fresh fruit. How much did Sir Edris think a girl could eat? It was sweet of him, nonetheless. Her father had been sweet, and now he was dead. Someday, Sir Edris would be dead, too. For all of his muscles and fame, he couldn’t postpone the inevitable—his reflexes would slow, his strength would wane, and then some young adventurer would challenge him to a duel. His pride wouldn’t let him back out, of course, and eventually he’d meet his end. What was the old adage? “Adventurers never die in their beds?”
She thought about Brago and what he’d said about her family. His words stabbed at her, making her feel evil and ugly.
She forced herself to focus on Artis. She’d rescue him. She had to. Then she’d deal with all of the other issues.
Grabbing a biscuit and a slice of pork, Natalie made a sandwich and left the house, searching for The Goblin’s Head. She hadn’t gone more than a few steps, though, when she spotted somebody who could help her.
“Nathaniel!” She ran after the boy as he ducked into a side street. “Nathaniel!”
He stopped. “Oh, hi, Nat! Good seeing you around. What’re you and Sir Edris doing today? Anything exciting?”
“Sir Edris…?” Something nagged at the back of her mind. Her face was bruised and battered, her eyes swollen and purple from Brago’s second beating, so why hadn’t he asked her how she was feeling? Most people would have asked that first.
“Is Reg around?” Nathaniel grinned, hands in his pockets. “I owe him a drink. Maybe the three of us can have dinner tonight. What do you say?” He grinned suggestively. “My treat!”
Why was he lingering around this neighborhood? There were no wealthy merchants he could pickpocket or beg money from, so why—?
Her heart stuttered. She dropped her sandwich in the road.
“Where’s Art?” she demanded. “Where is he?”
Nathaniel shrugged and gave a light laugh. “How the hell should I know? Last time I saw him, he was in The Goblin’s Head, having a gay old time with a couple of attractive ladies.” He leaned closer, bouncing his eyebrows. “I don’t think you’ll need to worry about him bothering you again, if you know what I mean.”
Natalie slapped him hard, driving the boy to the dirt street. Immediately, his grin slid into a sneer. He drew a dagger from beneath his tattered cloak. Natalie leapt onto him, kneeing him in the stomach. He gasped as she pinned one of his arms underneath her.
“Where is he!” she shouted, not caring that her tousled dress revealed more of her thighs than what was appropriate. “You know, don’t you? You know!”
Nathaniel shook his head, trying to both breathe and deny her allegations.
Furious, Natalie slammed her knee into his groin. Dropping the dagger, Nathaniel curled up into an agonized ball, rocking to and fro. She seized a fistful of his grimy hair.
“Tell me where he is! You’re working for Brago, too, aren’t you?” She yanked. “Aren’t you!”
Nathaniel sucked in air, wincing.
Natalie punched him square in the face, knocking the boy’s head back to the ground. He fought to fend off her blows, but she hit him over and over again. People stopped and actually laughed, some jeering at Nathaniel for being beaten by a girl.
“Tell me!” she yelled.
Natalie’s fist connected with Nathaniel’s nose; it snapped as blood gushed. She kept hitting him.
“Stop it!” Nathaniel tried to protect his face. “Stop it!”
She grabbed even more of his hair and yanked as hard as she could. Nathaniel cried out, calling her a stupid bitch. Panting, she pressed the tip of the dagger into the skin beneath his jaw, just as Brago had done to her. Nathaniel froze.
“Where…is…he?”
One onlooker called for Natalie to drop the knife, but others told him to let her solve her problems the way she saw fit.
Blood trickled down Nathaniel’s throat.
Natalie leaned in, face inches from the boy’s. “Brago’s going to kill me when this is all over, isn’t he? Why should I care about killing you?”
Nathaniel swallowed. “I—I—I can’t tell you. He’d—”
She pushed harder on the dagger and twisted.
“All right!” Nathaniel cried out. “All right! Stop!”
“You and Brago took him, didn’t you? You got Art drunk or something, and kidnapped him. Where is he?”
Nathaniel looked at her with more than hate and pain in his misaligned eyes. She shrank back.
“He’s dead…” she managed to say. “Isn’t he?”
He didn’t need to respond.
“Oh, gods!”
Suddenly, Nathaniel threw his weight to one side, while pulling Natalie toward the other. She slammed to the ground as Nathaniel sprang to his feet. He touched his neck, then looked at his blood-covered fingers.
“You never liked Artis, anyway,” he shouted. “You treated him like piss!”
“Sir Edris is going to kill you!” screamed Natalie. “I’m going to tell him, and he’s going to kill you!”
But the boy merely smiled, and Natalie suddenly understood: Brago wouldn’t merely beat Sir Edris to Balen’s harp—he planned on murdering him.
“Brago pays much better.”
Nathaniel laughed as he brought his boot back to kick Natalie in the face. But Natalie, still clutching the dagger, brought her hands up to block. The dagger stabbed deeply into the Nathaniel’s ankle. He screamed, blood soaking his boot.
“Bitch!”
He jerked the dagger out of his leg and made to jump on Natalie, but several men held him back.
“No, you don’t,” said one. “You got what’s coming to you. Now leave the lass alone.”
> Nathaniel quickly sized up the crowd, then snarled at Natalie. “There’s an old expression, Nat: never leave enemies alive. Remember that the next time I see you!” He hobbled away through the onlookers, leaving a trail of blood behind in the dirt.
Chapter Thirty-One
Natalie pulled her hair back into a ponytail, then stamped a foot farther into one of her scuffed work boots. She had to get to Sir Edris and Reg before they reached the hills overlooking the Kettering lands, and she couldn’t travel in a silk dress. The problem was: Sir Edris and Reg had left earlier that morning, most likely before dawn, and they were riding horses.
This last issue didn’t matter. Sir Edris had provided Natalie with more than enough money to buy a horse. Hell, she could buy an entire stable of horses. But first, she needed to figure out where the Kettering Manor was and how to get there from Winros Minor.
She pored over the maps she’d purchased.
Sir Edris had said that the Ketterings lived on Balen’s old lands, and that Balen had lived near a town called Dark Ford in The Angle. The Angle was in King Michael’s realm, due north of Winros Minor, between the Greater and Lesser Green Rivers. Scores of fishing towns dotted the river valleys, with countless villages and nameless farming enclaves throughout the surrounding hills.
“Dark Ford…” Natalie muttered.
That could be anywhere. Dozens of towns were named “something” Ford—High Ford, Low Ford, Stoneford, Three Fords, Loud Ford, Deadman’s Ford…She scanned the maps, searching the names printed by each tiny dot.
Wait. Didn’t Sir Edris or Reg also mention the Ketterings had relocated the town when they bought Balen’s land?
Natalie grimaced. Relocated. That meant Lord Kettering had kicked all of the peasants off their farms and sent them on their merry way with only what they could carry. Damned nobility.
Where would Dark Ford have been?
Maybe along the Lesser Green River, south of Upper Angle? There, the river flowed though narrow gorges over which sheer, forested cliffs leaned. That region would certainly be considered dark.