by Tim Stead
Nothing but Tombs
By
Tim Stead
Being the Second Book of The Beggar’s Ride
Continuing the Tale of The Sparrow and The Wolf
© Tim Stead 2019
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any written, electronic, recording, or photocopying form without written permission of the author.
Also by Tim Stead
The Sparrow and the Wolf
The Seventh Friend
The Bloodstained God
The Pity Stone
The Beggar’s Ride
Serpentine
Nothing but Tombs
The Fourth Age of Shanakan
Shanakan
The Lawkeeper of Samara
Scar Felice
A Game of Three Hands
Derakwa
The Fish King*
* Soon to be released
Table of Contents
1 The King’s Wine
2 A Dragon
3 Alwain’s Camp
4 The Defenders
5 Ashia and Telio
6 The Great Hall of Col Boran
7 Toranda
8 Men at the Gate
9 The Great Council of Afael
10 The Declaration of Johan Paritti
11 Berrit Bay
12 Kenton
13 High Stone
14 The Arts of War
15 Expulsion
16 Alwain
17 Tricks
18 The Problem at High Stone
19 The Farheim Roads
20 Dardanel
21 The King
22 South
23 Defences
24 High Stone
25 Enali
26 A Dance
27 The Road
28 Death by Drowning
29 Beyond the Wall
30 Leaving the Road
31 The Walls of Afael
32 Pomeroy’s Regiment
33 The Duke’s Camp
34 Novice
35 The Beginning
36 The Servant
37 Revenge
38 Patrol
39 The Gateway
40 Stranger
41 The Trap
42 A Question of Timing
43 The King’s House
44 Beckton
45 Revenge
46 The King
47 Fetherhill
48 Cain’s Pendulum
49 Gayne
50 Mordo
51 The Queen
52 The South Wall
53 The Peoples’ Army
54 A Difference of Opinion
55 Great Howe
56 The Place
57 The Wounded
58 Col Boran’s Agent
59 Alwain’s Tent
60 War and Peace
61 Fetherhill
62 The Walls
63 Great Howe
64 Talking
68 Home
65 Old Friends
66 The Village
67 Red Hill
69 Resignation
70 Unnatural
71 Going North
73 Waterhill
74 The Chairman
75 A Paved Road
76 The King’s Council
77 Raven Down
78 Fetherhill
79 Fire
80 Blood Valley
81 Ambush
82 The Road to Great Howe
83 Changes
84 Great Howe
86 A Position
87 A Price to Pay
88 A Gift
89 South
90 The Fight
91 Lordship
92 For Ever
93 Another Wall
94 By Night
95 The Hero of Fetherhill
96 The Chairman
1 The King’s Wine
Poison.
Narak could smell it as soon as the serving girl entered the room. Even in wholly human form his sense of smell was better than any man’s, and the poison wasn’t subtle. The girl was pretty, and thin, and graceful; just the sort of woman to catch the king’s eye despite her modest and plain attire. She walked towards King Degoran’s table, wine jug in hand, smiling. Narak pushed off from the pillar he was using as a back rest and moved through the crowded banqueting hall to intercept her, arriving at the King’s table just before her. He took the ornate jug from her hands as she set it down before Degoran’s plate.
The girl looked at him, startled.
“May I taste it?” he asked.
“It is the King’s wine,” she replied.
Degoran had noticed. He leaned back in his chair. “Brash can taste the wine,” he told the girl. He used the name that Narak had told him when he had first come to Golt. Many in the city still didn’t know that Wolf Narak, the most dangerous of the remaining Benetheon gods, was masquerading as the King’s Farheim bodyguard, but the rumour was abroad. Perhaps the girl knew who he was. Perhaps she didn’t. Either way she seemed frightened by him.
Narak poured a little into a cup and sniffed it. Black root. It was unmistakable. He sipped the wine. The hint of metallic sweetness was confirmation. Narak was immune to all poisons, so it did not worry him to drink from the cup.
“The wine is off,” he said.
Degoran’s eyebrows went up. He was wise enough to know that Narak wouldn’t be interested in tasting his wine just to judge its fitness for the king’s palate, and Narak had promised not to conceal attempts on the King’s life. He pulled a face.
“Bad, is it?” the king asked.
“You wouldn’t want to drink it,” Narak replied. He took the wine jug in one hand and with the other took the serving girl by the elbow and steered her out of the door towards the kitchens. As soon as the door closed behind him he let her go, and she walked beside him.
“Did you poison the wine?” he asked.
She stopped; eyes wide in the dim torchlight. “No! I never would…” It was true. Narak was dragon kin, and knew a lie when it was spoken, and the serving girl wasn’t lying. She was a dupe, then, and he wouldn’t have to kill her, but questions must still be asked and answered.
“I believe you,” he said. Her panic subsided a notch or two. “But I must discover how the poison came to be in the wine. Who gave it to you?”
“I took it from the cellar myself,” she said. “The wine master, Geldan, he told me which bottle, which type of bottle, and I chose one. He’s been showing me how to pour so the muck doesn’t get into the jug, and I poured it too, just the way he said.” She seemed to realise that her account pointed to her guilt. “But I didn’t…”
Narak cut her off. “Did you leave the jug anywhere?” She brightened a little.
“Yes. Of course. It has to stand, you see. That’s what Geldan says. I put a cloth over the jug and left it to stand in the cool room.”
She was babbling, but Narak didn’t mind. People who speak quickly speak without caution, and often say things a careful man might seek to conceal.
“Was there anyone else in the cool room?”
“No. Not when I put it – nor when I fetched it. The kitchen’s busy, see. So many to be fed.
“We’ll speak to Geldan,” Narak said. He allowed her to lead the way down the stairs to the vast, stone-flagged kitchens that lay beneath the banqueting hall. She pushed open the door and the world changed. There were dozens of torches here, and steam, and smells that assaulted his refined nose. There were people, too. People everywhere.
The chief cook, Barnly, knew Narak by sight, might even know who he really was, and came to them at once. He was a short, red-faced man, and he peered up at Narak with a worried expression.
“My Lord?”
The cook blanched. “At once.” Barnly snapped a few terse words at an underling and the man ran off with the jug. “This way, my Lord,” he said and Narak followed. The girl followed, too, drifting along behind them like a nervous spirit.
The cool room was down a short flight of stairs, and Narak guessed they were now beneath the ground. There were no windows and Barnly lit their way with a small oil lamp that barely shed enough light to prevent their tripping on the steps. The room was bigger than Narak had expected. Meat, sides of beef and pork, hung on hooks down one side. In the middle of the room was a table about eight feet long and three wide.
“I put it there,” the girl said, pointing. Narak wasn’t interested. There was nowhere else you could have stood a jug of wine, and it would be obvious to anyone who entered the room. There was something else. The room smelled quite distinctly of fish.
“Do you keep fish in this room?” he asked.
“No, no. That would spoil everything,” Barnly protested. “The smell, you see.”
“I can smell fish,” Narak told him.
Barnly frowned. He drew in a deep breath through the nose. “Damn that Catwin,” he muttered. “I’ve told him a dozen times…”
“Did you have a delivery today? Fish, I mean.”
“Every day. Fish doesn’t keep unless you salt it…” He stopped talking abruptly.
“Where did the fish come from?”
“Cail. We get all our fish from Cail, but the porter was a new face – hadn’t seen him before. You think he did it?”
The cook was shrewd. He’d followed Narak’s line of reasoning easily enough.
“Describe him,” Narak said.
The little man shrugged. “Taller than me. Younger than me. Dark hair.”
That was most men in Golt. “Anything that stood out?”
“He didn’t speak like a servant,” the girl offered.
“You met him?”
“I did,” she agreed. “He admired the jug I was carrying…” She clapped her hands over her mouth. “Gods forgive me,” she said. “I told him.” Of course she had. A young girl, proud to be so trusted, would have told anyone.
“That it was the King’s wine? He had to find out somehow,” Narak said. “But you’re not to blame. Did you notice anything else?”
She nodded. “He was well dressed. Not rich like, but smart, and he wore a ring.”
“A ring? Can you remember what it looked like?”
She nodded again. “It was a fine thing. A gold band, or gold coloured, with a white stone set in a coin. I haven’t seen the like.”
Narak smiled. He had. The girl had proved useful – a witness with eyes. He suspected that the poisoner had been handsome.
“What is your name?” he asked her.
That made her nervous again. When the great ask the poor for their name it usually bodes ill.
“Ashia,” she said. “My name is Ashia.” She made it sound like a confession.
Narak flipped her a gold coin which she almost dropped in her surprise. It was probably more than she earned in a month. “You’ve done well, Ashia,” he said. “On behalf of the king I thank you.”
Geldan came down into the room, white faced and frowning. Narak questioned him, and everything he said rang true. He had given the job to Ashia. She had prepared the wine and taken it up to the king. He hadn’t seen the fish porter from Cail’s, but others had. Narak questioned them all. He even examined the fish, but there was nothing new. It was the ring that pointed the way.
*
Narak was up before dawn the following day. His quarters in Golt Castle were not lavish, but he had all he needed – a bed, a table, a place to wash his face. He dressed for killing. Dark clothes, two blades strapped to his back, soft soled boots. He left his room and passed the guards by the king’s door.
“Tell him I’ll see him after breakfast,” he said as he walked past. The senior man nodded. They knew better than to question him.
Narak was worried. There had been assassins before – men with bows and blades – and he’d traced them back to their source at Col Boran but been unable to find the head of that particular serpent until Mordo Tregaris had fled the God Mage’s palace. With Mordo gone it should have stopped.
So this was something else. This came from Duke Alwain. It could hardly come from anywhere else. The King had degraded Alwain’s blood and replaced him with Cain Arbak. Cain was now, officially, the Duke of Bas Erinor and Alwain was in open rebellion. Many of the southern lords had followed him and a civil war was about to break over Avilian.
Narak had no sympathy with the former duke. He had brought about his own downfall through greed, profligacy and mismanagement. Indeed, Narak applauded the king’s decision, which was why he had decided to protect the man, going against the god mage Pascha’s policy of leaving the kingdoms to manage themselves. He did not fear her. They had been lovers for centuries, and Narak had always been his own man.
He left the castle by the city gate and walked the grand road that led through the wealthy part of Golt. It was still shy of dawn, and the star-speckled sky was bruised to the east by the rising sun, a mix of cloudy grey and yellow overlaying the pink. The air was sharp and smelled of the sea. He turned left, then right, and came at last to a white painted house of considerable size. He stopped and knocked firmly on the door.
There was a lengthy pause before he heard footsteps and the sound of bolts being drawn. The door opened a crack and Narak found himself looking at an old man in a brightly coloured coat.
“Yes?”
“I am here to speak with Lord Whitedale,” Narak said.
“Too early,” the servant snapped back. “He doesn’t receive until the tenth hour.”
“He will see me,” Narak assured the man. “Tell him that Wolf Narak wishes to speak with him.”
The servant stared at him for a moment, as though unable to comprehend the name that had just been spoken. It was understandable, Narak supposed. It wasn’t often that a god called at your door.
“You are Wolf Narak?” the servant asked.
Narak smiled pleasantly. “Yes.”
The servant retreated a couple of steps and Narak pushed through the door and stood in the entrance hall. It was as opulent as he had expected. One wall was faced with white marble, which was appropriate, given that Whitedale’s fortune, and even his name, derived from the stuff. The other wall was a mural, a vast rendition of a battle scene that bore no resemblance to any battle Narak had ever fought in. It was too orderly, too clean.
The servant seemed paralysed with indecision. He shuffled his feet on the polished wooden floor and clutched his hands together.
“If your master is asleep, wake him. If he is breakfasting, interrupt him,” Narak said. “This is an important matter – or shall I seek him about the house myself?”
This suggestion seemed to galvanise the man into action and he hurried off up the grand staircase. That meant the lord was still in bed or dressing at best. That suited Narak. Lord Whitedale would be off guard at such a time.
He waited.
Raised voices upstairs suggested a degree of panic, and it was a poorly attired lord that hurried down a minute later, his grey hair uncombed, his coat unbuttoned. He glanced at Narak and bowed.
“Deus, how may I serve you?”
“Tell me why you tried to poison the king,” Narak said.
The question was a surprise attack. Whitedale’s mouth opened and closed. “Poison? Is he all right?”
His concern seemed genuine, but a question couldn’t be a lie or a truth. It was a tactic that Tregaris had used.
“Did you do it?” Narak asked.
“No! Of course not. Why would you think such a thing?”
Truth. Whitedale wasn’t responsible. But the ring had been a Whitedale ring. He could
see its brother on the lord’s hand. A ruse, perhaps? A trick to draw his eye away from the real culprit?
“Your family, are they here?”
“My wife and son, but I insist that we are innocent. Who has accused us?”
“Send for them,” Narak said. It was good that innocence and guilt were so easily established since he became dragon kin. Centuries past he would have been forced to resort to tricks and torture, but now a statement would do either way. He’d never liked hurting people without the certainty of guilt.
Lord Whitedale looked angry, but there was little he could do.
“I’ll fetch them myself,” he snapped and stamped back up the stairs. Narak waited. He could hear the man shouting in the corridor above, footsteps running, answering voices pitched high with fear. He was used to people being afraid of him. It didn’t necessarily mean they were guilty.
They came down, Whitedale leading the way, and Narak was amused to see that the man had tidied himself and strapped on a sword. His wife was younger than him, fair, but still showing the signs of age. The son was tall, good looking, and dark haired. He wore the Whitedale ring.
Narak studied the boy. He was about sixteen, and almost rigid with fear, eyes wide, jaws clenched. Narak pointed to him.
“Did you poison the King’s wine?” he asked. The boy looked at his mother, and that was a fatal slip. She was ignoring her son. He shook his head.
“Say it,” Narak insisted.
“No,” the boy muttered. “Why would I do that?”
A lie. So, the son was the one who’d charmed the serving girl and poured black root into the wine. That seemed clear enough.
“Why?” Narak asked. “Because your mother told you to.”
“What nonsense!” the Lady Whitedale almost snarled the words, but he could see the fear in her face.
“Do you deny it?” Narak asked.
“I do!” Not a lie. Narak had asked the wrong question.
“Then what was your son doing in the castle kitchens yesterday?” Narak asked. The wife didn’t answer. She looked away, apparently unwilling to meet her husband’s eyes and afraid to look at her son.
Lord Whitedale had turned the colour of his marble wall. Narak understood. The old man was loyal to the king, and even if he didn’t believe it yet he was quickly coming to terms with the idea that his wife and son had tried to kill his monarch. Narak wondered which would win – love or loyalty.