CHAPTER 3
Adalhaid stood outside the White Horse Inn, trying to steady her nerves. People bustled past her, casting glances at her that were clearly of attraction rather than irritation. She had little time to dwell on her annoyance at the thought that her disguise was earning her more admiring looks than her usual appearance. The inn was a well-known landmark in Elzburg and provided the plushest of accommodation and the finest of cuisine for wealthy visitors to the city. While they did not also provide companionship, they turned a blind eye to the stream of high-class courtesans who entertained the inn’s guests.
Adalhaid had done her best to copy their manner in dress, hair, and makeup, but with limited time, her effort was far from perfect. She had lightened her hair as best she could, and with the aid of a touch of magic that surprised even her, it was now a rich golden blonde rather than its usual deep copper. Makeup had tanned her otherwise fair skin, and heavy kohl darkened her bright eyes. She had barely recognised herself in the mirror, and hoped it would be enough.
There was always the chance that the Intelligenciers had found their way to Aethelman’s room. A discreet enquiry had informed her that Gustav dal Aetheldorf’s room at the White Horse was paid up for a month, and that he had left strict instructions not to be disturbed by the cleaning staff. She had waited until she was sure it was safe—probably longer than she should have. They might have gotten to him before he had been able to take the poison, or before it had done its work. Standing across the street from the inn and preparing to go inside disguised as a high-class companion, she felt both terrified and ridiculous. She prayed the disguise would allow her to pass through without notice, and be unidentifiable should the Intelligenciers come asking questions. Even so, the risk was great, as was her fear.
She looked up and down the street and, not seeing any men in black hooded cloaks, took a deep breath and walked to the door.
The portly receptionist stood attentively at a lectern with the inn’s heavy leather-bound register sitting open on it. He smoothed his thin black hair as she approached, and smiled.
‘How may I help you, ma’am?’
‘Lord Aetheldorf’s room,’ she said. She had been there once before to visit Aethelman, but the receptionist showed no sign of recognising her, which gave her a modicum of confidence in her disguise.
‘Of course, ma’am,’ he said, running an ink-stained finger along the register. ‘Room three, on the first floor. What shall I enter you as on the register?’
Adalhaid felt a flash of panic, but the receptionist continued to speak.
‘His… niece?’
Adalhaid smiled. ‘Exactly so. His niece. Room three, first floor?’
The receptionist returned her smile as she headed for the stairs. The heels of her shoes sank into the thick carpet, causing her to wobble with every step. They were her most expensive pair, and she only wore them when she had to. They had higher heels than she was used to, and she marvelled at how the other women there moved about so gracefully in similar footwear.
Despite feeling like she might turn an ankle with every step, she hurried up the stairs with as much elegance as she could muster. She reached a door-lined corridor at the top, each door bearing a bronze number. She unlocked number three with the key Aethelman had given her, went inside and closed the door. She leaned against it and shut her eyes, allowing herself a deep breath to still her racing heart.
When she opened them, she scanned the room. It was fastidiously tidy, as she would have expected from Aethelman. She doubted the inn’s servants had needed to do a single thing to the room since he’d taken up residence. She went over to the bedside table and opened the drawer. Just as Aethelman had said, there was a knife and a small scroll of paper tied with a piece of string. She picked up the knife and studied it for a moment. She realised it was made from Godsteel, a dark metal with an ethereal blue tinge when the light hit it the right way. It was covered in neatly etched symbols, the meaning of which was beyond Adalhaid—but they were reminiscent of those she had seen on ancient standing stones near Leondorf.
She slipped both knife and scroll into her bodice, then shut the drawer and made her way out of the room. When she reached the top of the stairs, she could hear gruff voices below. She peered over the banisters, and her heart jumped into her throat when she saw the billow of a black cloak. She stepped back, her mind racing. Her first thought was to go back to Aethelman’s room and try to jump out of a window—the first floor was not so high.
She shook that foolishness from her head along with the panic that had caused it, and applied her mind to the problem. She backed down the hallway, all the while listening to the clump of the Intelligencier’s boots on the stairs. As she went, she bumped into a servant.
‘Very sorry, ma’am,’ he said.
‘Think nothing of it,’ Adalhaid said, her eyes instantly scanning the walls for a hidden door. The servant had not been in the hallway when she had come out of Aethelman’s room, and his was the last on the corridor. The walls were lined with a floral covering of silk, with dado rails and plaster decorations. There were any number of places where a servants’ door could be hidden, and she felt her panic start to rise again as the footfalls grew ever closer. Perhaps the window wasn’t such a bad idea after all?
Then she spotted a dark patch on the wall, which marked the spot where many hands had fallen. She rushed forward and pressed on it. With a click, a door popped open. She stepped through and pulled it shut after her, not knowing whether to laugh with relief or cry for the terror of how close she had come to the Intelligenciers. If she had spent a moment longer in the room, they would likely have caught her. Even so, she was not yet in the clear—she still had to get away from the inn and restore her usual appearance.
She stood in a spiral stairway. Gone were the fine silk wall hangings and thick carpet, replaced by peeling paint, cracked plaster, and stone steps hollowed and polished by the countless feet that had trod on them. She walked down them as quickly as her shoes would allow. She realised the Intelligenciers may have left a man in the foyer, and the receptionist was bound to have told them that Lord Aetheldorf had a guest. She reckoned that having waited for so long to go to the room, the watchers had likely grown bored and less observant. If she had gone straight after his arrest, they would have likely caught her. The thought of how close she’d come to ending up in a dungeon was terrifying. She continued down until she could go no further, and exited the stairwell into a cellar.
She hurried through it, between barrels and racks of wine bottles, until she reached a set of stone steps leading up to double doors in the ceiling. She unlatched them and pushed the doors open, flooding the dark cellar with light. She skipped up the remaining steps and walked out onto the street like it was the most normal thing in the world. Each step took her away from the inn, and closer to safety. With each one she expected to hear a call, but none came, and it was not long before she had melted into the city’s crowds, the first part of her task accomplished.
ADALHAID SAT IN HER ROOM, staring at the wall. Part of her wanted to weep, part wanted to rage, and another part wanted to go and stab Rodulf in the heart. Instead, she sat there silently, holding in the turmoil of emotion that threatened to drive her to an act of madness. It had been like that constantly over the few weeks since Aethelman’s death—she had been paralysed with indecision as one day rolled into the next.
Aethelman had been a feature in her life from her earliest memory. Even after having moved to Elzburg, the knowledge that he was back in Leondorf if she needed him had always been a source of comfort. Rodulf clearly had a different opinion, seizing as he had the opportunity to kill the kindly old priest in the most horrifying way possible. To throw a man to the Intelligenciers under an accusation of sorcery was to condemn him to live out the short remainder of his life in the company of torturers. She hated herself for having given Aethelman poison, but she knew that under the circumstances it had been the kindest thing she could do.
That was no
t the only matter that bothered her, however. As her thoughts had turned to Rodulf, and the mysterious Stone which she had to destroy, other things had occurred to her. The speed with which Rodulf had pointed the finger at Aethelman was too much of a coincidence for Adalhaid to swallow. After days mulling it over, she was certain it was an opportunistic attempt to divert attention away from himself.
The more she thought about it, the more it made sense, but she knew there was no way to prove it. With his sudden climb in favour with the Markgraf, he was untouchable. The death of the Markgraf’s son, Petr, had nearly broken him. Aenlin’s death so soon after had all but finished the job, and the situation had greatly benefitted Rodulf. If he had any involvement, he wouldn’t have been stupid enough to leave loose ends, and Aethelman’s task would become all but impossible if she was caught asking questions. For the time being, she could have her suspicions and no more.
She had read the scroll—written in Aethelman’s careful hand—at least a dozen times, until she could recite it from memory. Not that the instructions were complicated. She had simply to cut through the Stone with the knife, no differently than cutting through a pat of butter. It went into more detail on the object she was looking for, but he had told her everything of importance at their last meeting in the dungeon. The note left her with a great sense of melancholy, as she thought of Aethelman and what was so obviously conveyed by the instructions. He had never expected to complete his task.
The city’s bells rang and interrupted her thoughts. She was due back at the clinic that afternoon, having taken a leave of absence after Aenlin’s death, and their pealing reminded her that she was running late. She put the knife in a safe place in her room, gathered her things and left, only then remembering her harsh words to Jakob the last time she’d seen him.
ADALHAID WALKED into the clinic with an overwhelming sense of dread. She felt as though she owed Jakob an apology, but she was still angry with him. She was certain she could have saved Aenlin had she been given the chance, but she knew that to Jakob, the idea of using magic to save the girl was more horrifying a thought than her dying. In that, he could hardly be held completely to blame—the attitude was a product of his society, as much as using it without hesitation was a product of hers. It hammered home the fact that the south would never be home—part of her would always be of the Northlands, would yearn for the wildness of the place. For Wulfric. The thought caused her stomach to twist. She would never really fit in here, and she realised that deep down, she didn’t want to.
She pushed the thought to the back of her mind and forced it onto the present. Apologising would be the easy thing to do—the right thing, if she was to take the southern point of view. Still, Jakob could have distracted the other doctors, allowing her to slip in and do what she needed to and disappear again before anyone was the wiser. She couldn’t bring herself to forgive his inability to disregard a close-minded notion he should have had the intelligence to see beyond.
Her anger was tempered by her suspicion about Rodulf, however. If Aenlin had been recovering, there was no reason for the doctors, Jakob included, to be particularly concerned. If Rodulf had somehow managed to poison the girl, there wouldn’t have been time to fetch her. Even if they had, it could already have been too late. If there had even been the slightest chance…
She shook her head. She knew what Wulfric would have done—anything and everything available to him to save a life. She had been blinded by looks and charm and sophistication, and she hated herself for it. Jakob was well-meaning and good at heart, but he was so much like the rest of the city, and the south in general—an intoxicating veneer over a core of little value. How could she have allowed herself to be taken in by it?
The south offered things she needed if she was to be able to stand on her own two feet—education and qualifications—but while she chastised herself for even contemplating an apology, she found clarity for the first time in an age. Wulfric was the man she would forever compare others to, and so long as there was even the hope that he still lived, she would search him out. A qualified doctor could travel the world in ease, paying their way with their skills—ship’s physician, caravan doctor, visiting surgeon. She could walk into a foreign village with nothing but the clothes on her back and know she could earn a hot meal and a safe place to sleep in less than an hour.
She went about her usual preparation for the day at the clinic, putting on her gown and tying back her hair in the small room reserved for the staff, and was surprised by an unfamiliar face when she walked back out.
‘You must be Adalhaid,’ the woman said with a warm smile.
‘I am,’ Adalhaid said. ‘You have the advantage of me.’
‘Elsa Skender,’ she said, holding out her hand.
Adalhaid took it, uncertain if she was supposed to know who the tall, blonde woman was.
Skender’s face broke into a smile and she laughed. ‘I’m sorry, I can see from your face that no one’s told you I was coming. I’m Doctor Strellis’s replacement.’
Adalhaid’s eyes widened and Skender looked at her with curiosity.
‘Ah,’ she said. ‘No one’s told you that either. To be expected, I suppose. The department is never the most adept at dealing with quick change.’
‘Why is he being replaced?’ Adalhaid said. ‘Is something wrong?’
‘Oh, no,’ Skender said. ‘He’s taken up a post at the University of Mirabay.’
‘What?’ Adalhaid said. She was surprised that he had gone without telling her. Had her words hurt him that much? Mirabay. The far side of the Middle Sea. ‘Why did he go? Do you know?’
‘They made the offer a while ago, but he didn’t want to leave. After all this business with the Markgraf’s daughter, he thought a fresh start was for the best. Probably for the best. I mean, the Markgraf’s daughter died on his watch. Responsible or not—and I don’t think for a moment that he is—his career in Ruripathia is finished.’
Adalhaid fought to shake the confusion off. ‘Do you… know him well?’
‘We were classmates at university,’ Skender said. ‘I’m not long back from a year’s placement in Voorn, and was looking for a clinical position, so I was in the right place at the right time. It’s not official yet, but all the paperwork should be done by the end of the week.’
‘Oh,’ Adalhaid said, still trying to take in the fact that Jakob had upped and left. After presiding over the death of the Markgraf’s daughter, he would have been justified in thinking his future in the city was limited as Skender had said, but leaving so abruptly didn’t sit well with Adalhaid. If he had done nothing wrong, should he not have stayed and defended his reputation? She shook her head at the thought, but realised she did not feel hurt, or confused. Only relieved.
‘Well, it’s nice to meet you,’ Skender said, breaking the silence. ‘I’m looking forward to working with you—I’ve heard good things. Now, I’d best take a look around and get to grips with this place.’
‘Thank you, Doctor Skender,’ Adalhaid said. ‘And welcome, of course.’
‘Thanks,’ Skender said. ‘And it’s Elsa.’
BANNERET-INTELLIGENCIER HEIN RENMAR watched two young swordsmen walk down the street, their cloaks thrown casually back over their shoulders, their hands resting on the pommels of the swords strapped to their waists. The young blades wore their wide-brimmed, feathered hats at rakish angles these days, and these two were no different. Renmar could remember a time when he had been the same, living from job to job without a care in the world. So much had changed. He had become a husband, a father, then a widower. A life of adventure lived by the sword ended by necessity, and he became an Intelligencier, the regular wage never quite making up for the loss in excitement. Nor for his distaste for many aspects of the job—but that was the cost of growing old and gaining responsibilities, he thought.
His eyes flicked from the two swordsmen disappearing down the street to the quarry he was tracking—a young redheaded woman. A physician. He shrank back i
nto the shadows of a recessed doorway and watched her walk into her clinic. When she was gone, he mulled over this first glimpse of her. Nine times out of ten, a report of sorcery was nothing more than a malicious act against a disliked neighbour, a lover who had scorned them, or someone who had cheated them. On a rare occasion, the accused could do something of a magical nature; little more than some sparks and pops, usually. Such weak parlour tricks were not worth bothering with. He had never encountered someone who could do real magic. The type that could affect the world in a truly tangible way. He had heard rumours that the now-deceased tyrant who had invaded Ruripathia, Duke Amero, had employed a powerful mage from the east. His sudden and dramatic rise to power hinted at supernatural assistance, so Renmar could well believe it.
However, he had long since ceased to get excited by the report of a sorcerer or sorceress at large in the city, but he gave each the attention he would have done were it the first time he had heard such an accusation. A significant question posed itself right away: if this young woman could do magic, why would she waste away her talent in a provincial city like Elzburg?
The woman who had reported it, a professor of medicine at the city’s university, bore all the hallmarks of having once been beautiful, but from whom age had robbed the attention her looks had once brought. The alleged sorceress was young, copper-haired, and unquestionably beautiful. Perhaps the girl had stolen the professor’s husband, or caught the eye of a younger man the professor had wanted for herself? The simplest explanation was usually the correct one, in Renmar’s experience. Magic was as far from ‘simple’ as could be had.
He watched her go about her work in the clinic through a window for a little longer, until he satisfied himself that she was likely nothing more than the subject of a baseless imputation. He was busy, and chasing down false accusations kept him from home, and his boy, for longer than he liked. As he walked away, he wondered if he should look in on the professor again. Accusations such as hers were rarely well-intentioned mistakes, and wasting Intelligencier time was a foolish thing to do. Usually their reputation scared off all but the most determined. Perhaps it was slipping, and an example needed to be made. In any event, the young physician looked like a dead end.
The Blood Debt: Wolf of the North Book 3 Page 3