Shards of a Broken Sword
Page 7
“Yes,” said Althea, but her voice was slightly breathless, which pleased Markon greatly. He couldn’t see her for the Lady’s willowy, black-edged form, but what he had seen before she intervened was a deep, warm flush in Althea’s cheeks. “Thank you for your assistance, Lady.”
The Lady’s eyes flicked from Althea and back to Markon. She said: “Perhaps I’ve mistaken the situation. Do you require my assistance, little one?”
“No,” said Althea, bringing one hand out from the folds of her borrowed skirt. “I believe you need mine.”
Again there was a flicking of the Lady’s eyes from one to the other. “We will speak privately,” she said.
They were courteously escorted to what Markon thought might have been the Lady’s private quarters: an enormous suite of rooms that numbered among them a pleasant, leafy apartment with grass for carpet and a waterfall leaping from the ceiling in one corner. It was to this leafy space that they were escorted, and though their escort was perfectly polite and well-mannered, Markon had the distinct impression that if either he or Althea took one step outside the prescribed course, they would be stabbed through the heart without a word or a second thought.
For all their solicitude, when the guards had walked them to the door they left them alone with the Lady. It should have made Markon feel more comfortable, but instead it made him feel disagreeably that the Lady didn’t consider them to be a significant threat– and worse, that they just might not be. Althea had said that this magic was much stronger than the first lot they’d trailed, and he remembered too that she’d said this wouldn’t be an easy trip like that one had been.
Still, when the Lady closed the door on them she seemed perfectly cool: relaxed even. Markon wondered if he’d imagined the momentary freezing of her face when she’d seen what Althea held.
Her voice as languorous as her eyes were watchful, the Lady said: “How did you happen to come by that little bauble?”
“Bauble?” said Althea seriously. “No. I don’t think so. I think this little bauble cost you rather a lot.”
“In bitter pride and anger, quite significantly,” agreed the Lady. “What do you know, little one?”
“I know there was a Door drawn and open. I know you were in the human world and that you laid at least one spell while you were there.”
“And you wish to know more?”
“I do,” said Althea.
“Something to do with your strong, silent human, hm?”
“It concerns my son,” said Markon.
“You: silence,” said the Lady, utterly indifferent. “I care nothing for humans and their get, nor do I appreciate being a pawn in the games of your snivelling kind. That I should be summoned like a common demon and forced to do the bidding of a puny, magicless stripling! I, who rule three cantons in the Unseelie! And to know that it could happen again!”
“If you answer our questions we’ll do our best to make sure it doesn’t happen again,” said Althea, a warning in her eyes for Markon. “That’s why we’re here. There’s a rogue human opening Doors to Faery and harming young ladies in the court. Yesterday we met an old Fae who said she was paying a debt to the Opener.”
“Debt!” said the Lady scornfully. “Oh well, I suppose in the strictest sense of things she was telling the truth. The spell laid a burden on me that I couldn’t shake off: it felt for all the world that I’d struck a bargain and entered into a debt of honour. I dispensed with some of my ire on the human girl whose bones I shattered, but I would fain see that human stripling again!”
“Would you know the human again?”
The lady laughed derisively. “One human is much the same as another, and the knave wore a hooded cloak. I couldn’t so much as tell whether it was male or female. The spell, though: I’d know it again. One thing is certain, little one: that spell was not such as belonged with that human.”
“I see,” said Althea thoughtfully.
“I went away without seeking vengeance this time,” said the Lady, and there was a chill in her voice that cut right to Markon’s bones. “Next time I will not be so lenient.”
“Lenient!” he said, with a slow-burning anger that overtook the chill from the Lady’s voice. “Lenient! The child’s bones were shattered so that they couldn’t be healed before they began to shatter again!”
“Oh, I can see why you keep him!” purred the Lady. “Such passion! And yet, my little one, if your human does not mind his manners I’ll not find it necessary to mind mine.”
“Be silent,” Althea tossed at Markon, offhand and imperious. He shut his mouth, his anger enough in check to read the tension in her shoulders.
The Lady smiled at his acquiescence and turned her gaze on Althea again. “I would fain have my magic back, little one.”
“It’s yours,” said Althea, shaking out her hand as if to rid it of a gaudy bracelet no longer in favour. “Do you have any other recollections that may be of help to us?”
“Only one,” said the Lady, and Markon very much misliked the cruel curve of her lips. “The magic you carry will bring you nothing but trouble if you travel overlong in Faery. Be cautious, little one, and good fortune!”
Day Seven
It was an odd way to put it, thought Markon. Yesterday in Faery the Lady of the Revels had said: The magic you carry will bring you nothing but trouble. Not your magic, but the magic you carry. And although Althea gave a very good impression of being Fae, Markon had the feeling that it wasn’t so easy to hoodwink the Lady of the Revels. He did try to find out from Althea exactly what the Fae had meant, but Althea had been distant and uncommunicative on the way back to the castle. Whether that was because she was hiding something or because she was unsettled from the kiss, Markon wasn’t quite sure.
He found himself smiling absently at the window and hastily pushed away that particular memory. Far too many of his thoughts revolved around Althea as it was: there was no need to encourage dangerous and ultimately ineligible thoughts. Althea belonged to Parrin.
He therefore did not think about her as he finished the final draft of the Montalier/Avernse trade agreement. He didn’t think about her in her moonlight dress with her hair curling down her back. He didn’t think about her strawberry shortcake scent or her bouncing, energetic walk. He didn’t think about her single-minded determination or her habit of forgetting that she was talking to the Reigning Monarch of Montalier. He was so intent upon not thinking about Althea, in fact, that when she and Parrin entered the library together, he wasn’t entirely sure that he hadn’t conjured her up.
“What mischief are you up to?”
They both had a troubled look, and before Parrin answered, they exchanged a look.
“Doctor Romalier is dead.”
Markon’s first thought was one of galling frustration that even dead, Doctor Romalier was going to cause him immense annoyance. A Wyndsor doctor, dead on Montalieran soil: what Wyndsor couldn’t do with this as their incitement!
“What happened?”
“I’m not entirely sure,” said Althea. “He’s in his room, throat cut, but there isn’t a lot of blood.”
“There was heaps,” said Parrin, who looked slightly green.
“Not enough,” Althea said firmly. “When you cut someone’s throat–”
“Althea!” groaned Parrin. “You told me before, and it was just as awful then! You’re trying to make me throw up again.”
“You took Parrin to see the body?” demanded Markon.
“Of course!” said Althea, evidently surprised. “He was with me, and it’s his affair, too. Besides, I couldn’t find you.”
“I’ve been in the library all morning,” Markon said, and caught the way her eyes slid past him. Oho! So it was the kiss!
“When you cut someone’s throat,” she reiterated; “There is spatter. And spurting. And huge puddles of blood.”
Parrin grew slightly greener. “Althea–”
“And there was none of that,” continued Althea, ignoring him.
“No magic at all,” said Althea. “It had me at a bit of a loss, actually. I’m so prepared for your murders to be magical ones that it took me quite a while to understand that his throat really was slit.”
“They’re not my murders,” Markon protested.
“But the point I was trying to make,” continued Althea, with a disapproving look at Parrin: “Was that he wasn’t killed in his room. Someone killed him elsewhere and then moved the body.”
Markon frowned. “Why?”
“I suppose he was killed somewhere that would implicate the murderer,” said Althea. “And that really does make me wonder if perhaps we’re looking for a man. Throat-slitting is such a messy way of killing someone.”
“It doesn’t need much strength, though,” pointed out Markon.
Althea looked dissatisfied. “Yes. I suppose you’ll be quite busy this afternoon contacting Wyndsor and making official statements?”
“Yes,” said Markon, rather sourly. “Which begs the question of why I’ve not seen my seneschal yet.”
“I’m sure he’ll come just as soon as he knows.”
Markon narrowed his eyes first at Althea, then Parrin. “And when will he know?”
“Possibly when the upper maid who discovered Doctor Romalier regains consciousness,” said Althea. “I think her name is Nan. She must have come to draw his curtains.”
“Did you leave the poor girl on the floor?”
“I thought it would be easier than explaining why we were prying into Doctor Romalier’s room,” Althea said, a little guiltily. “Besides, it gave us a chance to come and tell you.”
“If it comes to that, why were you prying into Doctor Romalier’s room?” asked Markon. “For that matter, how did you get in?”
“Althea can pick locks,” said Parrin, radiating awe. “She said she’ll teach me how to do it.”
Althea’s eyes met Markon’s. She said hastily: “I said I might teach you. We wanted to see if there was anything interesting in Doctor Romalier’s rooms. After that listening spell he was certain would be in my suite, I thought a little poking around in his suite might prove helpful.”
“Only we didn’t get a chance to look because Doctor Romalier was dead on the floor and the maid was unconscious by the door,” said Parrin.
“Really?” Markon found himself surprised. Althea’s eagerness for investigation hadn’t been stopped by a mere dead body last time.
“Well, I might have pinched some of Doctor Romalier’s notes,” confessed Althea. “As galling as it is to think, he must have been very close to discovering who’s opening the doors: why kill him otherwise? I thought the notes might be enlightening. We didn’t dare stay too long in case the maid came around. Besides, Parrin was just about to throw up.”
“And were the notes helpful?”
“Not particularly,” said Althea. “Doctor Romalier was working under the theory that these attacks were—ahem—‘spiteful womanish crimes’ and that it was likely they were committed by one of the female servants in the lower castle.”
“Why the servants in the lower castle?” asked Markon wearily, certain that he was about to be sorry that he’d asked.
“Apparently ‘the lower class are prone to envying their betters’,” said Althea distastefully. “Oh dear, I think this must be your seneschal coming now. Perhaps I’ll go and talk to Nan.”
Markon would have protested that he wanted to come along as well, but it would have sounded perilously like whining. If it was his seneschal he would be far too busy being Informed and writing tiresome letters to Wyndsor to sneak about the castle with Althea. And now that he came to think of Wyndsor, thought Markon bleakly, he was bound to have to talk to Pilburn again. Doctor Romalier and the emissary had both been irritating and potentially dangerous thorns in his side, but the murder of either of them in his castle was more than slightly embarrassing. And if he wasn’t careful, it could also be more than slightly damaging.
The best thing, thought Markon, nodding a distracted goodbye to Althea and Parrin as they slipped from the library, would be to let it get about that Doctor Romalier had fallen a victim to the curse. After all, he’d been sent from Wyndsor—that all-too-interested and solicitous country—specifically for the purpose of assisting with the curse. It was by no means certain that he hadn’t been murdered in pursuance of breaking the curse.
Althea and Parrin were scarcely gone when there was a knock at the library door; firm, business-like, and short. That settled it: it must be his seneschal. No one else could make a simple knock at the door sound both authoritative and vaguely menacing.
“Enter!” he called.
The door opened and closed with precise movements; and having entered the room, Markon’s seneschal bowed in equally precise movements.
“Good afternoon, Sal.”
“Sire.”
“I suppose you’ve come to tell me about Doctor Romalier’s murder?”
His seneschal’s face became slightly more granite than usual. “Is this something I should not know about, sire?”
“I don’t see why,” said Markon. “If I’m to be annoyed by it you may as well be annoyed, too.”
A grin broke out across Sal’s usually impassive face. “I’m glad to hear it, sire. You had me worried. I’m no lover of hush work.”
“Not hush work,” Markon said, sighing faintly. “But it may well be tricky.”
“If you don’t mind my asking, sire: if it’s not hush work, how did you know?”
“The enchantress and Doctor Romalier were both working on the curse.”
“Ay, a rarely knowing woman, that one,” said Sal approvingly. “Found the body, did she?”
“She did. Perhaps you could be careful about where you mention the fact.”
“Ay, sire. You’re certain she didn’t do it?”
“I am. She had Parrin with her at the time.”
His seneschal nodded. “Good fortune, that. One of the upper maids found the body first and brought in the steward. He brought her to me, of course. She was in a bit of a state: couldn’t say anything but that he’d been murdered just like her best friend, and that it wouldn’t stop until they were all dead. I had to have her looked after by one of the nurses.”
“Her best friend murdered, too?”
“Ay, sire. Happens that the young girl murdered four nights ago was her dear friend. They worked together and were by all accounts very close. I’m told that Nan took prodigious care of the girl: they quilted rugs together in their spare time and gossiped about the other upper maids.”
“Poor child,” said Markon. “Unfortunate that she was the one to find the doctor.”
“Do you have instructions for me?”
“Not many. I’m about to start on the express to Wyndsor, so I’ll need your preliminary report before dinner. And I’d appreciate it if you sent the Wyndsor Emissary in to me: he’ll need to be told.”
“I could go so far as to tell him myself, sire,” suggested Sal. “No need for you to be bothered, I dare say.”
It was very tempting. Markon would much rather not converse with Pilburn if he didn’t have to do so. At last, he shook his head ruefully and said: “On the whole, I think not. I wouldn’t like Wyndsor to feel itself slighted, and if there’s anything Pilburn is adroit at doing, it’s taking offense. Send him up to me when you’re able.”
“As you say sire,” said Sal, bowing once again. “I’ll have the report to you in time for the night express.”
That night before bed Markon slipped an etched iron band onto each of his wrists. He’d become rather tired of relying upon Althea for his protection while in Faery, and after some frustrated thought on the matter it had seemed likely that his armoury would have something helpful in it.
It did: a pair of etched ir
on bands that were locked away in a beautiful rowan-wood box bearing a card with the somewhat gloomy message:
Markel,
To you and your bride I give this gift in the hope that you may never need to use it. Knowing something of this world and that, and knowing something of the Broken Sword itself, I feel certain that those who are prepared will better weather the storm I foresee drawing near. Should I live to see you bear children, I will do them the same kindness.
Yours in hope,
Simel
Markon, having seen Faery for himself, had a good idea of what that world was; and he distantly remembered that his father had once had an older brother, Simel. No one would talk of him, but the impression that had grown in the young Markon from things that were said was of a deeply troubled and perhaps slightly mad man. Still, when Markon showed the iron bands to Doctor Fenke, the man stared at him and asked forthrightly: “What would your majesty be needing with Dispelling Bands?”
“I’m not sure I do need them,” said Markon. “I’m rather curious to know what they are, however. I found them in my father’s things.”
“They protect the wearer against malicious Faery magic,” said Doctor Fenke, his suspicions not entirely allayed. He’d gone on to say a great deal more, but Markon had already come to the conclusion that it would behove him well to wear them on the next excursion into Faery. Perhaps tomorrow he would ask Althea about them.
Day Eight
“Unseelie again,” said Markon, peering into the soft darkness of the Door. “I’m beginning to sense a pattern.”