by Sarah Remy
“I thought Armswoman Lane took better care of her pages,” she said, looking from the odd mannequins to the battered lads. “I know she prohibits fighting amongst her students.”
“She’s not here to know,” the slight lad replied in a plummy accent. He wore a page’s gray uniform, but the insignia of his rank was stitched onto his breast: Wythe, which meant he was the constable’s last remaining heir. “And it wasn’t fighting. We were only settling our disagreement the honorable way, just as Liam taught us.”
Avani arched a dubious brow. “Honorable, is it, my lord? Well, Liam and I have a difference in opinion, I think.”
The young earl shrugged. He held a small ax in one hand. He tapped its blade against his boot as he peeked out of the corner of his eye at Arthur.
“Happens I’ve come to visit Liam,” Avani continued. “If your disagreement is indeed settled, Arthur, mayhap you’ll take me to him?”
“He’s not here, neither, my lady,” Arthur blurted, “nor Parsnip.”
“Arthur!” the earl snapped. “We agreed!”
“Your fist agreed,” Arthur retorted, “with my eye. And mine with your poncy face, Morgan, and a man’s allowed to change his mind. This here is Lady Avani, Liam’s family—”
“I know who she is!” Morgan flushed scarlet.
“—and she’s got a right to know if anyone does, that Liam’s gone walkabout, even if your mum and the armswoman said keep quiet.”
“Walkabout?” Avani repeated. Alarm made the question sharper than she intended. “What do you mean?”
“Only that he’s given up on us and gone on to Stonehill,” Morgan said, scowling. “Lane said Liam made a noise about it a while back, after he’d left the Lord Vocent’s service, about how he was unhappy in the city and mayhap he’d just up and go home to the Downs. Lane asked him to stay and give us a try, only I guess it didn’t work out, because he’s gone and he’s taken Parsnip with him.”
“And I tell you Parsnip wouldn’t just up and leave!” Arthur’s chin jutted in distress. “She’s got her family here in the city, and us, and all she’s ever wanted is to be a Kingsman, so why would she?”
“Ai, calm down.” Trepidation gripped Avani. “Take a breath now—Arthur, Lord Wythe—and tell me what’s happened.”
Liam’s scanty belongings were in the pages’ dormitory, seemingly exactly as he’d left them: an extra uniform—spotted with dried blood—and a pair of heavy winter boots, the small jade carving of an elephant he’d brought back from Roue, a handful of hard candies wrapped in colorful parchment, and two silver-bound books stacked neatly out of the way under Liam’s cot.
“Those belong to the god,” Morgan said as Avani, puzzled, turned onionskin pages. “See, there? That’s the Masterhealer’s stamp in wax on the first page. They shouldn’t be out of the temple.”
“It’s a lot of writing,” Arthur said skeptically. “Only a scholar or a theist would care to break back over those.”
Avani couldn’t help but silently agree. Liam was learning his letters and could read and write as well as any midgrade squire, but the flowing script and formal language in the books would have set him a challenge.
“They’re journals of some sort.” She could easily guess how they’d come to leave the temple library. Tucking the books respectfully under her arm, she vowed to have a word with Deval. “You’re quite right, my lord, they’re not safe shoved under Liam’s bed. I’ll return them as soon as I can.”
“Do you think they’re a clue?” asked Arthur. “As to why Liam ran away, I mean?”
Morgan scoffed. “He stole them and meant to sell them for the silver on the binding, I’m sure of it.”
Avani thrust an arm between the two boys before they could come again to blows. She recalled her own brothers tussling over a shattered toy, using blows to cover the pain of loss.
“Stop, now,” she ordered. “My lord, Liam wouldn’t leave you without good reason. Nor would he steal from the temple to make a few coin. I taught him better than that. He’s a loyal sort. I know he’s fond of the both of you. The three of you. Now show me, which cot belongs to Parsnip?”
“Something’s happened,” Morgan said, shoulders slumping. “You think something’s happened to them.”
“Liam wouldn’t run off,” she repeated.
Arthur led her to a cot down the rectangular room from the others. It was tidily made but obviously used, unlike so many of the empty beds. A quilted coverlet lay folded at one end of the mattress across from a flat, threadbare pillow. By the large, sticky crock on the floor beside the cot, Parsnip had a fondness for honey.
“Her mum made that blanket,” Morgan said. He touched a finger to the quilt. “I guess she wouldn’t have left it behind on purpose.”
“Nor her ax,” said Arthur pointedly.
Avani looked at the small ax, now hanging on Arthur’s belt.
“We found it in the trees on the edge of the park,” the young earl confessed. “Just this morning when we were practicing shooting squirrel with Abney. I showed it to Lane; she said it served Parsnip right to lose it, that no good soldier ever abandoned her post.”
“You said the armswoman’s not in the barracks.” Avani stuck a finger in the honey pot. The crock was empty, scraped almost clean. “Where has she gone, do you know?”
“There was a note from Master Paul over breakfast,” Arthur offered. “Could be she’s gone to the temple. She was in a foul mood after, and that was before we found Parsnip’s ax in the woods.”
“Ai, then I’ll look for her there,” said Avani, keeping concern from her face. “And return these books to the library at the same time.”
“What about Parsnip and Liam?” worried Arthur. “Morgan and I should walk the park again, shouldn’t we, my lady? What if there’s more than Parsnip’s ax lost in the woods? What if Liam and Parsnip are there?”
“No one gets lost in the Royal Gardens, and certainly not for two days.” Morgan chewed a thumbnail. “They’re not that large, Arthur, and they’re patrolled regularly. Why, if you stood in the very middle and shouted I’d hear you from here.”
Arthur looked unconvinced.
“My lord speaks the truth,” Avani said, if only because she wanted to keep the two lads out of trouble. “If they were somehow lost in the gardens they’d be found by now. Stay here and send word if they return.”
Arthur sat on Parsnip’s cot. Morgan slowly did the same, expression somber.
“We’ll wait,” he promised. “Until Parsnip and Liam are back where they belong.”
She left the barracks at a walk, books in hand. She wanted to run; to the palace, out of the city and up the highway toward the scarlet woods and Stonehill, or around the Royal Gardens in panicked circles. Until recently she’d assumed Liam would come to her if he was in trouble. It appeared she was wrong, and that she’d waited too long to track him down.
Mal? She had to stop midstride on cobblestone and close her eyes to solidify thought into message, a scribe working with complicated script on air-thin paper as crowds passed around her. Is Liam with you?
There was no response, either because he was busy trying to further interrogate the barrowman deep in the bowels of the palace and too far away or distracted to hear, or, just as likely, because he was ignoring her attempt at communication.
“Ai, Goddess. Save me from headstrong men and boys.”
When she opened her eyes again she saw that she was drawing curious stares from people in the street. A graying maid carrying a basketful of brown eggs sketched a curtsy as she hurried past. “My lady.”
“Good day,” Avani replied belatedly. She clutched the temple books to her chest and hurried on in the wake of amused glances.
She took a turning onto narrow, less-traveled streets off the main thoroughfare in hopes of avoiding the bottleneck near Brother Tillion. Here the cobblestones were slick with garbage and other effluvia, windows overlooking the street shuttered against rising stink and buzzing blackflies. The
sweepers who kept Wilhaiim’s main roads clean were often less diligent away from the palace. The summer heat made the back alleys almost untenable.
Lady Greta had died in such a place, only strides away from the safety of her usual haunts. What, Avani couldn’t help but wonder, had happened to the baroness in those moments between shopping for produce at the Fair and breathing her last in a back alley? Had the old woman known her killer, or had she been chosen at random?
Could there truly be a serial murderer hunting in and about the city, picking victims without obvious rhyme or reason? Was it possible Lady Greta, Farrow, and the young prostitute had simply been casualties of fate, killed because they’d been easily at hand? She’d heard frightening stories as a child of similar predators, an island man gone feral in his dotage, another who had stalked Shellshale’s small port, taking only young women of a certain age and hair color. Both men had eventually been caught out and executed for their unnatural crimes, but not before much damage to the community had been done.
Such evil had no rhyme or reason. If a determined killer walked Wilhaiim’s streets, no person was guaranteed safety.
What if Liam and Parsnip had somehow run afoul of that danger? Would his body turn up discarded like so much garbage in a back street, or displayed like an offering in the Royal Gardens? And why had the armswoman so casually dismissed his disappearance?
By the time Avani reached the temple she’d given up on dignity for assuming the worst. She ran up the steps, bypassing pilgrims and theists alike. The Kingsmen set to guard the temple door regarded her with mild interest, taking note of the sweat on her brow and her shortness of breath. They stood aside as she ducked out of the sunlight and into the temple. A tonsured theist in long robes greeted her with surprise.
“My lady,” the man said. “Welcome.” His eyes fell on the books in her arms, then on the sword on her belt. Weaponry of any kind was looked upon with disfavor in the temple. His mouth creased in dismay. “Have you come to visit Deval? I’m afraid he hasn’t yet graced us with his presence today. I understand things are quite busy lately at his shop.”
“Armswoman Lane,” Avani demanded. “Has she come through?”
“Oh, aye. Just this last hour, my lady. I understand she had business with Master Paul; they’ve been confined in the Masterhealer’s sanctuary since her arrival.”
“Thank you.” Avani heaved a sigh of relief before stepping deeper into the building. “I remember the way.”
“But, my lady—” distress made the man’s voice shrill “—you cannot mean to disturb—” he blocked her passage. “There are protocols—the Masterhealer’s sanctum is hallowed—”
She chased his protests into silence with a glare. “I am the most powerful woman in the kingdom,” she said coolly. “I stand at the king’s right hand. I act in His Majesty’s interest, and you will stand aside.” Although she did not have the Goddess’s favor on her shoulder in the form of a grumbling raven, Avani felt the power of all her ancestors coalesce like a promise on her tongue. The theist made a strangled sound. He stepped aside, quivering head to toe.
“Thank you,” she repeated, and left the man shaking where he stood.
The temple was only half-full in the heat of the day, quiet but for the susurrus of pilgrims breathing before the altar, the murmur of priests tending to the needs of their flock, and the drip of wax onto the floor from ever-burning candles. The Masterhealer’s private sanctuary was behind the temple itself, past the altar and through a massive arch, beyond a square of blooming garden and through another, smaller span of stone.
The wooden door was closed. A theist sigil on the lintel might have prevented intrusion if Paul wished privacy, but the spell had been deactivated, the mark was dull and cold.
Avani knocked once, perfunctory in her worry. There was no reply. She wasn’t sure she could have heard a call of welcome through the heavy plank door if there had been one. She tried the iron latch, found it unlocked, and entered the sanctuary.
It was a simple space, perfectly square, and sparsely furnished. The ceiling was sharply peaked. Smoldering censers hung on chains from the eaves. Fat beeswax candles burned in shallow bowls on the floor, but most of the light came through a circular stained-glass window on the west-most wall. Green and blue and red panes were a canvas upon which the theists’ iconic chalice and barbed spear floated in a repeating, spiral pattern.
A spatter of colorful sunbursts painted the floor in front of the window. The Masterhealer stood amongst them, gripping his hands tightly together at his gut as if to keep from reaching for the sturdy soldier who stood before him. Paul’s countenance was one of barely restrained rage. Lane, legs spread and fists on her hips, appeared equally incensed.
So focused were they on each other that neither noticed Avani where she lingered just inside the doorway.
“My allegiance is and always will be to the throne,” Lane said. Even from a distance Avani could see a muscle jumping erratically at the woman’s jaw. “I’m an old woman who has given my entire life in service, and never regretted it until now. You’ve shamed us, priest, cast a pall upon my fidelity.”
Master Paul had the disgruntled expression of one who’d found a dung beetle swimming in a much-anticipated bowl of soup.
“You’ve a strange idea of fidelity, woman,” he grated, unclasping his hands and plucking at his robes. “And an overactive imagination. I tell you again: I know nothing about priests in Skerrit’s Pass. Whoever they were, they’ve nothing to do with me or this temple. I’m not so foolish as to prefer the reign of the desert over the king we have now, no matter how blasphemous his intentions. Our forbears crossed over the mountains for good reason; the desert is not a hospitable place, nor its people merciful.”
“You’re lying,” Lane replied. “I’ve spent the last fifteen years of my life raising children into soldiers. I know guilt when I see it, whether on a lad who’s stolen sweets from the kitchen or—” she took a menacing step forward “—a worm so concerned with royal succession he’s willing to contrive a kingdom’s further misfortune. You’ll put a stop to your meddling immediately, priest; I’ve no desire to see more good people dead all in the name of your god when we’ve yet to recover from plague season.”
The Masterhealer wheeled away, shoulders shaking. At first Avani thought the armswoman had somehow driven the gruff man to tears. But then his hilarity rang loud beneath the peaked ceiling. He cackled, back still turned, as he walked away from Lane toward the low chair that must serve as his own catbird seat.
“You call me liar.” He flapped a dismissive hand. “I name you hypocrite. For all you swore to protect this kingdom until your last breath, as of late you’ve taken an unholy joy in weeding the chaff from the wheat. What do you suppose Renault would say, Armswoman, were he to learn how fervent a champion you’ve been since the Red Worm stole away your best pupils?”
The theists kept no sword or knife on their person; their god believed violence was anathema. Paul had no weapon with which to defend himself, had he seen Lane leap. But he didn’t see; he was still turned away toward his seat when she caught him about the throat with one arm. He choked out a cry of disbelief as she bent him backward, a grotesque embrace.
Skillfully done, Mal had said. Up through the ribs and into the heart.
“Nay. Be still.” A familiar voice in Avani’s ear. A gloved hand clapped across her mouth before she could shout warning but it was too late, because already Lane had plunged her sword up beneath the Masterhealer’s arm. The sword was much longer than a knife, or an awl, and not meant for stealthy assassination. The blade punched Paul straight through, the tip exiting his body above the sternum. He groaned like a man in the throes of passion. Blood bubbled from his nose.
Baldebert dragged Avani down onto the floor, covered her body with his own. He was heavy, implacable. His fingers tasted of leather where she bit him. He didn’t release her mouth. His expression was dangerous as he watched Lane lower the dying theist to the flo
or. The armswoman waited as Master Paul convulsed his last, then stepped squarely on his spine and drew her sword from between his ribs. The blade scraped audibly on bone. Blood ran in a widening river over the sunbursts beneath the stained-glass window.
Lane cleaned her sword on a square of the Masterhealer’s robes, sheathed it calmly, then pivoted and strode from the room, passing a hairsbreadth from where Avani lay pinned beneath Baldebert. Her steely gaze passed across them without awareness though nothing hid them from plain view. In another moment she was gone, the heavy wooden door closing on her heels.
“Don’t scream or they’ll hear,” Baldebert warned in a whisper, leaping up and immediately locking the door. He tested the latch twice then, apparently satisfied, extended Avani the same hand he’d pressed to her mouth.
She ignored it. Setting aside Liam’s books, she scrambled to her feet and ran to attend Paul, but too late. As she crouched at his side, his ghost materialized over the cooling body, blue eyes flaring.
“Desecration,” the ghost intoned, pointing an accusatory finger at his own corpse. “The temple must be cleansed at once.”
“What did she mean, misfortune?” Avani demanded, hands slick with the Masterhealer’s blood. The wound on his front was ghastly; she thought he’d been dead before he hit the floor. “What have you done?”
If the ghost heard her, he paid her no mind. “Cleanse the temple. This is foul defilement!” He wrung his hands as he had in life, distraught.
“Be gone,” Avani ordered, resigned. “By the Goddess, I banish you from this place. Go and rest.”
She thought she saw a flicker of relief in those blue eyes before Master Paul snuffed out, his ghostly form dissolved like so much smoke from the hanging censers.
“Swiftly, now,” Baldebert said. “I expect I know which way our murderer is headed, but I can’t be entirely sure, and I’ve a promise to keep this day.”
Avani rose. The man was indeed dressed for business: his hair was swept back from his face into a warrior’s knot. He wore a serviceable sword on his hip. A silver brooch sparkled on his breast. It was a sorcerous thing, beautifully made to resemble a flowering tree branch, the petals miniscule shards of sapphire. Whatever magus had crafted it had been a true artisan; only another of his kind would know that the power of the thing was bound to the bit of silver-dipped bone masquerading as a spring bough.