The Storyspinner

by Becky Wallace

  He felt a sense of relief. We’ve found the man who is murdering teenage girls simply because they fit a type. Killing for money. Killing because he can. The feeling was replaced by a primal, savage thirst for vengeance that could only be quenched with blood.

  “Stop,” Tex said, his gentle tone at contrast with the firm grasp on Jacaré’s forearm. “Assassins kill for money. We need to know who’s paying him.”

  There was a knife in Jacaré’s hand. He didn’t remember drawing it and he didn’t remember forcing it against Benton’s throat.

  “I know where your mind is, son, and you need to come back,” Tex continued, his hold tightening. “Leave the past in the past.”

  Jacaré blinked a few times, reconnecting with his surroundings, leaving the memories of another murderer behind. “I’m fine.” He cleared his throat and tried to make the words more convincing. “I’m fine.”

  There was a commotion on the trail, a brief argument.

  “You can’t go in there by yourself. ”

  “Didsbury,” said a feminine voice. “I’ve been handling matters like this since well before your father was born.”

  “But Elma . . .”

  “Get out of my way.”

  Tex grunted. “This should be interesting.”

  At least two pairs of feet crunched along the gravel that led to the small campsite. Pira entered first, her shaved head reflecting dimly in the firelight. She raised her eyebrows at the captive. Leão followed, supporting a woman whose limp defied the authority in her voice and in her essência.

  “Stop where you are,” Jacaré shouted, wondering if this was the power Benton had referred to. “Who are you and why are you here?”

  “A friend. Don’t you take one of your own at her word?”

  “Not on this side of the wall.” Jacaré looked between Elma and Leão who had so politely escorted her into camp. The boy was as much a hostage as Benton, though he didn’t seem to recognize the danger on his arm. “Only traitors stayed behind, and only the youngest or those who siphoned power from others could still be alive today. And what place would be better to steal essência than a camp of half-breeds?”

  The woman grunted. “Go to your commander, boy. Show him I mean you no ill.”

  Leão steadied her before leaving her side. She thanked him with a head nod.

  “Now you can release Benton. Performers don’t take kindly to having their own attacked.”

  Tex snorted. “How do Performers feel about assassins murdering their visitors?”

  “Assassins?” She took a few steps closer to the fire. The light made canyons of her wrinkles. “There must be some mistake.”

  “I’m afraid not.” Jacaré held up the throwing knife. “He said he came to ‘take care’ of us.”

  “He’s captain of our guard here at Performers’ Camp. He thought you were a threat,” Elma countered.

  “If that’s the case,” Jacaré said, and raised his other hand displaying the sigil ring they found in Benton’s belt pouch. “Explain why this mark was found on the bodies of two murdered girls.”

  Elma leaned heavily against her stick, as if Jacaré’s words were physical blows. “Oh, Benton. I knew you’d been in a street gang before you joined our camp. I thought you left that life behind.”

  To Jacaré she sounded like a parent, questioning the actions of a wayward child. Her tone surprised him. “That’s not all. The same mark was on a dart we found at the site where Arlo fell to his death.”

  The old woman bowed her head for a moment. “Are these charges valid?”

  “Elma the All Powerful.” Benton eyed the old woman with contempt. “Haven’t you seen all of this already?”

  “Of course not. You know that’s not how my power—”

  “Power! Bah,” Benton spat, ignoring the armed men around him. “Your mystical abilities never protected the Performers from harm! You couldn’t even protect them from me.”

  The color drained from her face. “Benton, what are you talking about?”

  “You’re supposed to be our wise, powerful leader, but you’re just as blind and stupid as the rest!” The assassin raised his bound hands, pointing a finger at Elma. “I earned your trust, I guarded your camp, I watched your children, and no one ever suspected.” Benton smiled as his words sank in. “You let me become a part of your community, and it’s protected me from suspicion for years.”

  Elma’s voice was barely audible over the crackling campfire, but there was a dangerous undertone to her words. “Explain yourself. ”

  “Can’t you do something magical to discern the truth?”

  “I wouldn’t tempt her,” Jacaré cautioned.

  “Ha—” Benton’s laugh cut off abruptly, his body twitching as if it had been shocked. “What was that?”

  “Your warning.” Elma lowered herself to a log on the far side of the fire. “Next time I’ll make you squeal like a stuck pig. Now explain yourself. ”

  The assassin’s grin returned. “That was a good trick for an old charlatan.”

  Benton jolted, his limbs going rigid for a few seconds. His mouth popped open and he groaned.

  “Answer me,” Elma prompted. “Were you paid to kill Arlo?”

  He licked his lips, eyeing Elma with a new sense of wariness, but the arrogance returned to his posture and the set of his jaw.

  “Not exactly. He became a target by association.” Benton focused on Elma. “I was supposed to kill a barmaid from Belem. There was nothing particularly redeeming about her tavern, the food was mediocre, and the people were low class, so it was quite a surprise to find Arlo drinking a cup of ale in their common room.”

  “Why would anyone want to have a barmaid killed?” Elma asked.

  “At first I didn’t know and I didn’t care. Teenage girls are such easy marks and they die so beautifully—their skin parting as my knife glides across their flesh.” He turned to Jacaré, a cold smile growing on his face. “I’m not stupid. After my third assignment, I realized my employer was eliminating girls who fit a specific description and had a dubious background.”

  Realization dawned in Elma’s eyes. “You were hunting the lost princess.” She looked at the Keepers ringing the fire. “That’s why you’re here.”

  Jacaré and Tex exchanged a glance but didn’t acknowledge her statement.

  “Everyone knew about Arlo’s longtime friendship with the king.” Benton shrugged as if the connection was obvious. “If the princess had survived, who better to know her location? Performers travel to every state. He could stop in and check on her periodically, and keep the secret of her heritage until she could ascend the throne.

  “Arlo was one more loose thread.” He made a cutting gesture with two fingers. “Killing him during his high-wire performance was brilliant. Everyone assumed it was an accident.”

  Jacaré shook his head, confused. “If you were sure the barmaid in Belem was the one, then why did you keep killing?”

  “I kept getting assignments,” he said with a shrug. “The money was good, so why would I quit?”

  “Who’s paying?” Tex asked, spinning his belt dagger around his forefinger. “Inimigo? Belem? Who?”

  “If only things were that simple,” the assassin said with a laugh. “I could be persuaded to answer your questions, but I’d like to live for a while longer with all my body parts intact.”

  “I say we kill him now,” Pira said, from the far side of the fire. “We can send the pieces to Venza.”

  “I’m inclined to agree,” Tex said, nodding to Jacaré for approval.

  “Don’t.” Elma used her stick to push herself awkwardly to her feet. “Murderer or not, you can’t dispense justice to a Performer.”

  “Why not?” Tex asked.

  “You have no authority—no matter how important you think you are.” She raised her hand and th
ick bands of air wrapped Tex from neck to knees, trapping his dagger to his side.

  “Elma, what are you doing?” Jacaré asked.

  “Benton is one of my people. He needs to face our laws and our punishments.” She took a few uneven steps forward. “Besides, do you really want to challenge me?”

  Jacaré drew on his essência till needles of pain stabbed the back of his eyes, but it wasn’t enough to break Tex’s bonds. “I need answers.”

  “We’ll get them. My way.” Elma offered them a gap-toothed grin that held a hint of malice. “We’ll take Benton down to camp, find out everything he knows, and allow our Council to determine his punishment.”

  Jacaré released his grip on his essência, feeling energy flood back into his limbs and breath return to his lungs. “We’ll follow you.”

  Chapter 59

  Rafi

  Rafi rubbed his eyes with his thumbs, trying to force away the grit of fatigue.

  He stumbled into his room and nearly jumped out of his skin when he realized the chair in the corner was occupied.

  “Mother!” He returned his dagger to its sheath. “What are you doing here?”

  She slid her needle into the fabric she’d been embroidering and met his eyes. “What I have to say couldn’t wait another moment.”

  Rafi dropped onto the edge of his bed and began tugging off his boots. “Does this have something to do with Uncle Fernando’s command to keep Johanna watched? I sent two men to guard her camp, even though I doubt she’s in danger.”

  “I hope two will be enough.” She abandoned her embroidery and sat beside her son.

  “You talk about Johanna as if her demise is imminent.” He loosed his dagger belt and held the knife between his fingers for a moment, remembering how deftly Johanna had tossed and flipped the one she owned. She could handle herself in a dangerous situation. He smiled at the thought and dropped the dagger on the bedside table.

  The grin fell off his face when he saw the lines of worry etched on his mother’s. He placed a hand over hers and asked, “What’s going on?”

  Lady DeSilva took a breath, and a deep sense of unease washed over Rafi.

  “Do you remember the story Johanna was telling before Inimigo burst in? ‘The Survivor of Roraima’? Have you heard that tale before?”

  “Once or twice. It’s a fable about a man who survived the razing of Roraima—which we all know is impossible—and how he smuggled out Wilhelm’s greatest treasure.”

  “What if I told you the story was loosely based on truth?”

  He eyed his mother askance. “Someone made off with the king’s bounty? Congratulations to him, but I still don’t see how this has anything to do with . . .”

  A picture began forming in Rafi’s mind. Wilhelm and his family had been killed sixteen years ago, after he failed to diplomatically encourage Inimigo to give up the siege and go home. Wilhelm sent birds to his allies, but Inimigo’s troops shot them all down. One eventually got through and reached Rafi’s father, but by the time Camilio marshaled his troops, they were too late to save Roraima. The township had burned to the ground.

  Rafi remembered how his father’s eyes had clouded over and his voice had rasped as he recounted the scene. His best friend strung up alongside his infant child over the gate, warning any who approached to stay away. Camilio had cut down the bodies himself and brought them back to his estate for interment. There had been no mention of the queen, but everyone assumed her body had been in one of the mass graves.

  “How could someone have gotten out?” Rafi asked, finding his mother’s gaze. “The Citadel was surrounded on three sides and backed up to the mountain and the brambles. Even if someone had escaped onto the mountain, Inimigo’s troops would have shot him down.”

  “I suppose that’s true.” She covered her mouth with her hand for a moment. “It’s just that Johanna bears such a remarkable resemblance to the queen. Fernando saw it too. With her hair so short, it was easy to dismiss, but when she stands in front of an audience, her presence feels so familiar.”

  “Fernando said someone was hunting girls that matched Johanna’s description.” Rafi flopped back on his bed. “All because they resemble our dead queen? That’s insane.”

  “It’s not only Johanna’s looks, Rafi. Her father—”

  “Arlo the Acrobat, not Wilhelm the King.”

  Lady DeSilva’s lips pressed into a flat line. “Arlo was a close personal friend of King Wilhelm’s, Rafi. He performed at the Citadel several times each year.”

  Rafi rolled onto his elbow. “Roraima is near Performers’ Camp. I’m sure they had more performances than the other states.”

  “Your father once told me that Wilhelm used Performers as spies, to keep tabs on the happenings in every dukedom.”

  It was a genius idea. The Performers had a perfect excuse to be in every state and had access to the gentry. They could pass messages to members of other troupes without attracting suspicion. Rafi wished he’d thought of it first.

  “You believe that Arlo smuggled out the princess while Roraima was under attack?” Rafi ran his fingers through his hair. “It’s a lovely fairy tale, Mother.”

  “There’s one more thing.”

  Her voice had dropped to a near whisper, as if she worried the shadows were listening. “I prepared Wilhelm and the baby’s bodies for interment, Rafi. The baby we buried was a boy.”

  Rafi sat up so quickly his mother shied back. “Why didn’t you say anything before?”

  “What was the point? There was no guarantee that Princess Adriana had survived the attack, and then the war started. It was more important to bring peace to Santarem than return an infant monarch to a throne she couldn’t maintain.”

  “But why string up the wrong baby, Mother? Why would Inimigo do that?”

  “So all of Santarem would believe his victory was complete, and to banish any hope that Wilhelm’s heir survived.”

  Rafi rested his elbows on his knees and clutched at his hair with both hands. He couldn’t believe a person could be so repugnant, so disgusting, so consumed by victory.

  I should have let Fernando kill him, and damn the consequences.

  “For the sake of argument, let’s believe Johanna is . . . who you say she is. How can she pose a threat? She doesn’t have any people. She can’t marshal troops. She’s no danger to anyone.”

  Lady DeSilva shook her head. “None of that matters. She’s the last remaining heir to a throne Inimigo has been coveting for decades. He’s not using aggression to seek it out, but a possible betrothal between you and his daughter would assure him your support. Belem is his closest ally, which leaves Wilhelm’s surviving underlords and Fernando to stop Inimigo from taking exactly what he wants.”

  There was a weight in Rafi’s pocket, something so heavy that he was amazed he’d been able to push it to the back of his mind. He pulled out Fernando’s ring, and his mother gasped.

  “Even less would stand in his way if I’m the heir to Impreza.”

  His mother’s eyes welled with tears. “Fernando’s still young enough to produce another heir. Why would he . . . That fool.”

  “Until we can convince him otherwise, I’m the heir to two dukedoms. And if we’re going to keep Inimigo off the throne, we’ll need to avoid a betrothal with his daughter.” Rafi smiled at the thought. “That shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “I know that look, Rafael Santiago DeSilva. I see it on your brother’s face ten times every day.” She gathered her embroidery supplies, packing up for the night. “In a few days, you will be the Duke of Santiago. Every decision you make now weighs on your future.”

  “I couldn’t possibly forget.” Even if I tried.

  “As your advisor, I think it would be best if we entered into negotiation with Inimigo for his daughter’s hand.” She held up a finger forestalling Rafi’s complaint. “If nothing else,
it could give us a hint at what intrigue is afoot.”

  She was right. As usual.

  “It’s not like any betrothal between you and Inimigo would be legal anyway,” she continued. “If Johanna is Wilhelm’s heir, then you’re honor bound to marry her.”

  Chapter 60

  Pira

  Pira didn’t want to be welcomed as a guest. She didn’t want to go down into Performers’ Camp, though the smell of roasting meat and fresh vegetables made her salivate. She didn’t want to abandon the little camp they’d made upslope and spend the night in the valley.

  But into the odd little community she marched because her brother commanded her to.

  “Stable the horses, see that they get some oats, and try to rest,” Jacaré had ordered as he propelled a bound Benton down the hill. He followed Elma and Tex into a two-story building known as the Council House.

  Elma assigned Didsbury to take Pira and Leão to the camp and make them comfortable. The young Firesword stopped at a bell-topped pole that marked the official entrance into the camp. He pulled a worn rope and rang the bell three times.

  All movement in the camp ceased, children halted their games, women stopped stirring their pots, conversation died, and every head turned in Pira and Leão’s direction.

  “We have guests!” Didsbury yelled.

  The stillness broke like a rogue wave as all the Performers in camp rushed to greet their visitors. Someone took the horses’ leads out of Pira’s hand. “Wait!” she shouted, trying to follow their animals.

  “Don’t worry about them,” Didsbury said at her shoulder. “They’ll be well cared for.”

  She looked to Leão for help, but he had a child in one arm, several others clinging to his legs, and was carrying on a conversation with all of them at once.

  Pira wasn’t quite sure how it happened, but she found herself sitting on a low padded stool with a bowl of steaming soup in one hand and a chunk of fresh bread in the other. On her right a young man, probably in his early twenties, described his acrobatic skills and on her left someone in a floor-length cape sang a battle song.