Devlin's Honor

by Patricia Bray

  “No.”

  “No?” Kollinar’s voice rose in disbelief.

  “The prisoner is to be transferred to the control of the peacekeepers. There she will be subject to Caer justice, according to the laws of our people.”

  “She committed treason. By the laws of the Kingdom she must be executed for her crime. After we have learned from her all we can.”

  And so Muireann believed as well. Which was a mistake she would come to regret.

  “Sit,” Devlin said, tired of craning his neck. He waited as Kollinar settled in one of the high-backed chairs, located on the opposite side of the antechamber from the sofa where Devlin sat.

  “Why do you think Muireann refuses to answer our questions? It is because she has nothing to gain. She knows that regardless of what she tells you, she will still be executed,” Devlin said.

  Kollinar shook his head. “You cannot be thinking of pardoning her. I will not have it. Think of the precedent that would set. What of the next person who decides to attack one of my soldiers or a royal messenger? Or even dares raise a blade against me? Shall they, too, be offered pardons in exchange for crumbs of information?”

  “Muireann does not want a pardon. She is not afraid of death. But I know what she fears far more than mere death, and that is what I will use against her.”

  Kollinar’s brow wrinkled in doubt. “And what is more frightening than death? The peacekeepers do not practice torture.”

  He might be an able administrator, but Kollinar was a man of little imagination. Worse, his questions revealed how little he truly understood the people he governed. Whether they dwelled in the crowded cities or the most isolated shepherd’s hut, all Caerfolk held the same thing sacred. And all knew that there were worse things to fear than one’s own death.

  Even a child understood what Kollinar did not. There were horrors not to be found in the Jorskian code of laws, nor even deep within the torture cells that did not officially exist. Horrors that Devlin could unleash on Muireann if he was willing to place himself at risk.

  He could try to explain, but it would be a waste of breath. Kollinar had spent a decade in Duncaer and was still ignorant. No words of Devlin’s were likely to change his mind, and Devlin had better uses for his time.

  “When the time comes, you will see for yourself,” Devlin said.

  “You will not explain. And I don’t suppose you will explain to me either why you slipped out of here last night without word to anyone, taking no escort except your aide and the harp player?”

  “The harp player is Stephen, son of Lord Brynjolf, a fact you would do well to remind yourself of. And as for explanations, I owe you none.”

  Lord Kollinar flinched at Devlin’s icy tone, finally realizing that he had gone too far.

  “I am responsible for all that goes on in this province. Including your safety.”

  “And I am responsible for the Kingdom.”

  Devlin waited a dozen heartbeats until he was certain that Kollinar understood his message.

  “Have the prisoner transferred this morning. I will send word to Chief Mychal to expect her. When I am ready to pass judgment on her, I will send word to you, so you may bear witness.”

  “Is that all, my lord Chosen One?”

  “That is all I require. For the present,” Devlin said.

  Kollinar rose and placed his hand over his heart, bowing in the formal salute of an officer to his commander. His smile was bitter, but Devlin trusted that Kollinar would do as he was told. As the governor left the room, Devlin rose. The prisoner’s transfer was only the first step. Now he had to line up the other players in this drama and ensure that they knew the parts they must play.

  Didrik was surprised to be awoken shortly after dawn with news that Devlin wished to see him as soon as he had dressed. Hastily he washed his face, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. On his way to Devlin’s rooms, he detoured through the kitchen, grabbing a bowl of porridge and a hasty mug of tea, hoping the food would help clear the fuzziness from his head. By his calculation he had had no more than three hours of sleep. It had been quite late when they had returned, but despite the hour, he had difficulty in falling asleep. The ritual had unnerved him—nearly as much as had the realization that a mind-sorcerer had somehow found a way to tap into Devlin’s thoughts.

  But now Devlin was free. And far too bright-eyed and cheerful for a man who had scant rest and was still recovering from his injuries.

  “Have you eaten?” Devlin asked.

  “Yes,” Didrik said.

  “Good. Come now, we have a busy day ahead of us.”

  “What of Stephen?” Didrik asked.

  “Let him sleep,” Devlin replied.

  Didrik spared a brief moment of envy for the slumbering Stephen.

  “Do you plan to question the prisoner?” If Kollinar had kept to his schedule, the prisoner would have been questioned again last evening. Presumably by an officer more skilled than Ensign Ranvygga had been. Didrik had planned on questioning her again this morning, hoping he might succeed where the others had failed.

  “Not today,” Devlin replied. “I sent Kollinar to arrange to have her transferred over to the peacekeepers.”

  Didrik wondered at the reason for the transfer. Did Devlin share his misgivings regarding the way the army was treating the prisoner? Or was there something else going on? Whatever the reason, he knew Lord Kollinar and his officers would be furious over the implied slight.

  “So we are going to the peacekeepers’ compound?”

  “Eventually. But first we must see Peredur Trucha. It will take some time to walk to his residence, so we had better be off to try to catch him before he leaves for the day’s errands.”

  Devlin offered no further explanation, and Didrik did not press him. They donned their winter boots and cloaks and set off for Peredur’s residence, accompanied by an honor guard of a half dozen soldiers. After the previous attack, their escort had been handpicked by Lord Kollinar, then personally inspected by Didrik. He knew each of them by name, and nodded in greeting to their leader, Ensign Hrolfsson.

  The lawgiver Peredur was indeed awake, although startled to see them. He invited them in, offering kava and freshly baked biscuits that his apprentice’s sister had sent over. Devlin accepted, and they sat around a small table in Peredur’s kitchen. They made small talk until the biscuits had disappeared, and then Devlin began to speak to Peredur in the Caer tongue. Peredur, his apprentice, and Devlin engaged in a brief but animated discussion.

  Stephen, at least, would have known what was being said, which was why Devlin had chosen to leave him behind. Didrik was being kept in the dark. And he did not like it. It showed a lack of trust, and that was an insult to one whom Devlin called friend. But more than mere friendship was at stake. Didrik was the aide to the Chosen One, charged by Captain Drakken herself with keeping him safe. How could he serve Devlin if Devlin insisted on keeping him ignorant of his intentions? How could he protect him if he did not know the shape of the danger he faced? If Devlin was planning something, Didrik needed to know.

  At last they seemed to reach some agreement. Heads nodded, then ritual farewells were said, first in the Caer tongue, then in the trade tongue for Didrik’s benefit.

  Devlin paused on the doorstep and touched Didrik’s arm. “We were not trying to hide things from you,” he said, responding to Didrik’s unspoken anger. “I needed to discuss a point of Caer law with Peredur, and there are some concepts that do not translate into the trade tongue.”

  The words took the sharp edge off his anger, but he vowed he would have the full story from Devlin. Later, in private, where a quarrel would not draw attention.

  “And did Peredur give you the answer you needed?” he asked.

  Devlin nodded, a grim smile on his face. “Yes. And he has agreed to bear witness when I pass judgment on Muireann.”

  He supposed it would be useful to have one of her own present, to see that all was done in accordance with the law. Though it was n
ot as if the judgment was in any doubt. Muireann had attacked the Chosen One with the clear intent of killing him. There was no question of her guilt. Nor of her sentence. Death by hanging, her body left to rot on the gibbet as a warning to other potential traitors.

  From Peredur’s home they made their way to the peacekeepers’ compound. Naturally it was located on the other side of the city and required climbing and descending several steep hills. But though his own calves ached, and he began to suspect that the Caerfolk were part goat, Didrik was pleased to see that the escort showed no signs of flagging, and even in the most narrow and crowded streets, they kept a tight formation around Devlin, ensuring that no one had the opportunity to try another attack.

  They found Chief Mychal in the training yard, watching as one of the peacekeepers used a stuffed leather dummy to demonstrate the proper use of a wooden cudgel against an enemy. As she spoke, her words were punctuated by sharp blows, and the trainees watched with rapt attention.

  Here the peacekeepers carried cudgels rather than swords, yet the training methods were much the same, and Didrik felt an unexpected wave of homesickness. It seemed a lifetime ago since he had stood in a similar practice yard, hoping for nothing more than to beat some sense into the heads of green recruits. And far longer since the days when he had nothing more to worry about than learning the sword drills and hoping to avoid his sergeant’s wrath.

  Devlin caught his eye and jerked his head in the direction of their escort, and Didrik instructed Ensign Hrolfsson to wait at the edge of the field.

  Chief Mychal came over to them. “All went well?” His gaze surveyed Devlin from head to foot as if he expected to see some physical sign of the magic that had been performed.

  “Ismenia was successful,” Devlin said. “I am in her debt. And yours.”

  “No,” Mychal said, with a hasty gesture of his right hand, meant to avert ill luck. “What is between you and Ismenia is wizardly business and I want no part of that.”

  “Fair enough. But I need your help in another matter. Kollinar is sending the prisoner Muireann over, to be held by you until I pass judgment.”

  “Indeed?” Chief Mychal’s bushy eyebrows seemed likely to crawl into his scalp.

  “There is more. I need everything you have found on Muireann of Tannersly. Including her family and kin.”

  Chief Mychal gave one short nod. “We should talk. In private.”

  “Agreed.”

  They spoke in the trade tongue, but there were undercurrents to their words that Didrik did not understand. He realized that Devlin was indeed plotting something. Something he had not seen fit to share with Didrik.

  It was no comfort to realize that Stephen and even Lord Kollinar were most likely just as much in the dark as Didrik was. It troubled him to see Devlin turning to these strangers for advice rather than trusting in those who had proven their loyalty to him time and time again.

  “Nils Didrik is my shield arm, and a lieutenant of the Guard in Kingsholm. Perhaps you could have someone show him around while we finish our discussion,” Devlin said.

  It was a public dismissal, and Didrik had had enough. He would not be treated in this fashion, and he no longer cared that there were witnesses to their disagreement. “Devlin, I will not—”

  “Later,” Devlin said. “Explanations now will take too long, and I do not want to waste Chief Mychal’s time.”

  Didrik clenched his right hand into a fist, channeling his anger. “You will tell me everything you are planning.”

  “I will explain to you and Stephen both. Later.” Chief Mychal called over to the woman who had been leading the training drill. One of the students took her place, and she trotted across the field to where they were standing.

  She came to a halt in front of Chief Mychal, drew herself to attention, then stamped one booted foot in what he supposed was a kind of salute. She was tall for a woman, perhaps an inch taller than Didrik, and solidly built. Her dark hair was cut very short and stuck up in spikes as if she were some kind of wild creature. She took a quick look at the visitors, then focused her attention on her commander, as was proper.

  “Saskia, this is Lieutenant Didrik, who Devlin tells me is a peacekeeper in his own country. I ask that you treat him as a guest while Devlin and I confer.”

  “Of course,” Saskia said, with a nod. But her attention was on Devlin as she added, “Gentle heart, it has been too many years.”

  Devlin flushed under her scrutiny. “Much has changed since I saw you last.”

  “When the news came we held vigil for her. The entire band,” Saskia said.

  “She would have liked that,” Devlin said, and only one who was watching him closely could see him wince. Didrik was not surprised when Devlin caught Chief Mychal’s eye, and without further ceremony the two began walking away.

  Saskia watched them for a moment, then turned her attention to Didrik, eyeing him as if he were a potential suspect in a series of crimes.

  “You are a long way from home. Tell me, do your Peacekeepers have weapons like this?” She twirled the cudgel in one hand, as if it were a mere toy rather than a lethal instrument.

  “Cudgels are known, but not common,” Didrik said. He would not insult her by telling her that in his land only the poorest criminals used wooden cudgels. “We carry the short sword on patrol and train with a shield for riots. The spear is used for ceremonial guard duty.”

  “And your most uncomfortable uniforms, no doubt. Here we are lucky, for the army provides ceremonial guards for the governor. Our duty is merely to keep the peace within the city and bring lawbreakers to judgment.”

  “A worthy task.” Especially considering their small numbers. Including novices, there were fewer than a hundred peacekeepers, responsible for keeping order in a city where ten thousand people crowded into a space meant to hold only half that number. Even with twice as many peacekeepers, they would be hard-pressed.

  Were Didrik in charge, he would not feel comfortable until he had at least two hundred fully trained peacekeepers to depend on. As well as assurances that the army garrison could be placed under his command in times of civil unrest.

  “It is too cold to stand here idly, and I would not have it said that I shirked my duty. Come, and let me show you how we do things here. If Devlin ever tires of your service, perhaps I can persuade you to join us instead,” Saskia said with a grin. “After all, you took one of our own, so it is only fair that Jorsk sends us a sword arm in return.”

  She led him across the muddy training field where the novices were now being led in strengthening exercises, their breaths steaming in the frosty air. Showing either thorough dedication to her duty or a strange sense of humor, Saskia insisted on showing him everything, from the weapons storeroom to the sleeping quarters where the novices were housed. Even the washroom came in for consideration.

  Didrik made the appropriate comments, but his mind was elsewhere. His companion appeared not to notice his lack of enthusiasm and took him from the washroom to the kitchen, which was housed in a separate building because of the risk of fire. He wondered what was keeping Devlin. Were he and Chief Mychal discussing Devlin’s mysterious scheme? Or had the prisoner arrived and were they questioning her?

  “A sound practice, don’t you agree?”

  Didrik blinked and realized that he had lost the thread of Saskia’s narration.

  “Of course,” Didrik said.

  Saskia laughed. “I just told you that we butcher our failed trainees and serve them to the others, as a means of encouraging success.”

  Didrik returned her smile. “My sergeant told me never to waste anything. But I don’t think that is quite what he meant.”

  He was fortunate that rather than being offended, Saskia had chosen to be amused by his lapse.

  “Have you seen enough?”

  “Yes. I apologize for my inattention. Under different circumstances I would indeed be interested in comparing our two forces—”

  “But now you are thinking
about Devlin, and whatever it is that he and Mychal are plotting between them,” Saskia said.

  He had not known he was that obvious.

  Saskia spoke briefly to the cook, who disappeared into an adjacent room and came back and handed Saskia a cloth-wrapped bundle that smelled like freshly baked bread.

  “The seniors have their own room in the main building,” Saskia said. “From there we will have a clear view of the corridor leading to Chief Mychal’s office, so we will know when they are finished.”

  “Let us go.”

  She had already shown him the peacekeepers’ headquarters, but this time she led him to a small room that held two square tables and a dozen wooden chairs pushed up against the wall. Saskia set the cloth bundle on the table and hung their cloaks on pegs. Didrik brought over two chairs and positioned them so that both would have an unobstructed view of the door, while Saskia walked over to a wooden cabinet and came back with two tall glasses and a ceramic jug. Removing the stopper from the jug, she filled a glass with dark liquid.

  “Thank you but no,” Didrik said, as she began to push the glass in his direction. “I do not drink while I am on duty.”

  “Neither do I,” Saskia said. “This is false ale. Sweet, but not intoxicating.”

  Didrik took a careful sip. It was indeed sweet, and lacked the gritty texture that he associated with Caer ale. He took another sip, and decided it was a fair enough drink for those who had never heard of citrine.

  Saskia poured herself a glass, then unwrapped the cloth bundle, revealing two flattened round loaves of dark wheat. These he recognized, for they were usually filled with sausage and cheese and made a good meal for those who were too busy to stop for proper food.

  He accepted the roll she handed him and bit into it eagerly. His years in the Guard had taught him never to refuse a meal for you never knew when duty would call you away.

  As he ate, his eyes wandered around the room. It was a cozy place, with a small fireplace and two windows high up in one wall that let in a surprising amount of sunlight. The wooden chairs showed signs of hard use, for more than one had newer wood where a leg or back had been mended. The oak tabletop was marred with rings from the glasses, as well as a dark stain that looked like someone had once turned over an inkwell.