by I K Spencer
The guard stopped directly beneath him and Garrick held his breath as the bough supporting him creaked. His limbs ached from holding the awkward position and he feared that his tensed muscles might begin to shake. Even in the cold March night air, sweat was gathering on his down-turned face. He was forced to take a breath and with extreme caution, he slowly exhaled and inhaled. After what seemed like a lifetime, the cautious sentry moved on and he moved his head slowly to the other side of the cold tree limb to watch the man depart. He did not move or relax until the man rounded the corner of the castle, which took several more minutes. With the sentry out of sight, he let his legs dangle and just rested for a few moments.
After the brief rest, he again leaned forward, stretching his squat frame to its limit. Reaching out, he softly tossed the carving and message toward the window ledge a few feet away. It was a good throw and the bird landed on the center of the sill where it could not be overlooked. He sighed wearily, both relieved that he had completed his task and tense about the events that now might be set in motion. Carefully, he slid back on the branch and climbed down. Once on the ground he quickly moved away from the castle to the relative safety of the garden. Emerging from the garden, he retraced his path through the trees back to the road.
Garrick followed the road to a different palace gate, careful to hide and avoid any sentries he encountered along the way. At the gate, he acted the part of an impatient superior officer on an important errand. The nervous sentries eagerly let him pass. After retrieving Lance, the exhausted guardsman returned to the boarding house room he had secured lodging in to begin his most difficult task yet—to wait.
********
Garrick sat next to the window, staring at the activity on the torch-lit street below, which had quieted considerably since sunset a few hours earlier. Thankfully for him, though, it would remain quite active until well past midnight. Watching the goings-on from his second story window had become his evening pastime since planting the message for the king three nights ago. He left the room above the wine shop during the day but spent the slowly passing nights holed up there, waiting for the visit that could bring his death or his salvation. Since the former was more likely, the waiting seemed extremely nerve-racking. His only diversions were drink, pipe, and the passing players on the street, which he watched from the dark room. A small blaze in the fireplace supplied the room’s only light and that was all but lost in the smoke from the green firewood and the steady stream of fumes from his pipe. The bowl remained lit from the moment he took his place by the window until he allowed himself to sleep, sometime after midnight. On the table beside him sat a half-filled mug containing lukewarm tea and an added bit of painkiller. The mug would be refilled regularly from both the tea pot warming by the fire and from the bottle kept in his pack, more often from the latter as the evening wore on.
He noticed a few regulars on the street below, one of the seamier sections of Carael. The same collection of whores and other vendors had shown up each night once the sun had set. He could certainly use a bit of the former’s companionship but doubted that it would be proper for the king or his emissary to be embarrassed by such a situation. The thought made him smile though.
He wondered how long he should wait or could wait. He would not be missed for at least another fortnight, when his next report to Orneson was due, but the wagoneer's associates must have missed the man by now. Eventually, he would be followed to the capital and to this lodging. If they were guardsmen then he would lay down his sword but if the attempt on his life were part of some plot against Jamen then he would have failed and his failure might lead to some greater tragedy. Perhaps after a another day or two it would be wisest to move to new lodging and take the risk to deliver another message giving the new location. The idea sat well with him as the last three days had seemed an eternity so any form of action was very tempting.
As Garrick's attention returned to the street below, he tensed. Two riders had stopped in front of the wine shop. He’d seen many mounted visitors during his vigil but these were no ordinary horsemen. They wore fine cloaks and boots and carried polished swords in their belts. He surmised that they were either noblemen or officers of considerable rank. The taller of the two wore his hood drawn but the guardsman got a good look at the other man—dark-hair, thin mustache and a short beard in a style popular with the aristocracy.
He watched the two men closely until they disappeared from view, directly below him. He then drew the curtains and lit a few lamps. He positioned his weapons for quick access, then hurried to the door, which he opened just a crack for a view of the hall beyond. A moment later he saw the hooded figure top the stairs and walk toward his door. He shut the door and barred it without making a sound. Frowning, he drew his sword and dagger. Where was the dark-haired man? He hurried to the window and peered around the edge of the curtain, half-expecting to see the second stranger perched on the ledge outside. He saw nothing and his attention was quickly drawn back to the door by a soft knock. The wary guardsman approached the door but said nothing.
A soft, clear voice called, "Garrick, it is Jamen."
Although Garrick did not recognize the voice, something in the soothing, yet commanding tone reassured him and he opened the door, sword in hand. The hooded figure slowly raised his hands and pulled the cowl back, revealing none other than the king. Stunned, the guardsman dropped his sword and quickly knelt before the monarch. Ignoring Garrick, the stately figure entered the room and closed the door after making sure the hallway outside was empty.
"The queen shall never believe I came to this place at this time to see an old friend, should I be found out," muttered the king to no one.
Jamen removed his cloak and looked around the smoky room with a scowl. Garrick stole glances at the monarch as he waited to be addressed. He noticed that the leader dressed plainly but the clothes were of the highest quality. Jamen still possessed the long, reddish-brown hair he remembered although it was now streaked with some gray. So too were the short beard and mustache. The face seemed fuller than he recalled but still bore the relaxed, friendly expression he remembered well. The king wore a short, unadorned sword belted at the waist. Finished with surveying the room, Jamen's gaze turned to Garrick, still on one knee with head bowed.
"Rise Garrick, old friend. Rise and tell me what brought you to be climbing about in my trees in the middle of the night. You are about as suited to tree climbing as I am to the war hammer." The words were said with humor but Garrick also sensed some impatience in the king's voice.
"Sire, I offer my sword in surrender if that—"
"Enough!" interrupted the king. "I know of no offense you have committed nor of any order for your death! You are my old friend and a hero to the realm for your deeds in the wars. I do want neither your sword nor your head." Jamen grasped Garrick's shoulders and pulled him up. "It is I, Jamen, your old friend. Stand and tell me everything."
Garrick looked up and felt immense relief, seeing the concerned smile belonging to an old friend. He offered the king a seat and tea. Jamen took the seat but asked for something stronger. He poured them each a glass of whiskey and they sat near the window. He then told the tale in detail, beginning from the moment he left the Kaslow tavern. The king sipped the whiskey and listened without interruption.
"You are certain this wagoneer was a guardsman?" Jamen asked immediately once Garrick had finished.
Garrick nodded grimly. "I saw the crest."
King Jamen rose and paced before the fireplace for some time, obviously deep in thought. Suddenly, he stopped and looked at the guardsman. "What did the fellow look like?" he asked excitedly.
Garrick did not answer immediately, gathering his facts from the careful study of the wagoneer in his cottage. He remembered his sketch of the dead man and pulled the paper from his tunic. "Sire, he was about your height, near two inches beyond six feet and powerfully built. He had short, black curly hair and sunken brown eyes." He ticked off the details. "His dark-skinned face
looked of southern origin. His nose was prominent and he had high cheekbones. I would guess him about five and twenty, certainly less than ten years from apprenticeship."
The king stood by the fireplace; his eyes studying the sketch as Garrick described the assassin's features. As prince then king, Jamen had met nearly all the guardsmen in the field. It was customary for the graduating guardsmen to meet the royal family and, since only one or two cadets were skilled enough to complete the academy each year, Jamen did not have too many faces to recall. Still, he shook his head and sat down.
"There are a few I remember that could match that description," the king muttered and turned to Garrick. "Do you have any enemies that you know of?"
"None but the kin of a few Dolonarian soldiers."
The king nodded, understanding Garrick's meaning. The elder guardsman had become famous for his heroic exploits in the two most recent wars against Dolonar. Since then, however, there had been little opportunity for him to make enemies.
"Is there anything of import happening in Kaslow of late?" Jamen asked, though he could have guessed the answer.
Garrick shook his head with a wry smile. They both knew the aging guardsman had been put to pasture in the rural province. Jamen sat for a while and said nothing. Garrick noted how the king's face had changed since he walked into the room just minutes earlier. Then, the monarch's face had shown compassion for his old friend but no real alarm beyond perhaps a concern that Garrick’s mind might be succumbing to age a little early. Garrick guessed that Jamen hadn't given much credence to the note but now, the king's pale visage was etched with worry.
"Garrick," Jamen started, his voice quavering. "Do you realize what this means if you are not mistaken?" He leaned forward, his eyes blazing with intensity.
"Yes, Sire," responded Garrick solemnly.
"If you are not mistaken," the king continued as if he hadn't heard the response, "we most likely have some form of conspiracy in the Guard and the best we could hope for is a rogue guardsman! How many times has either phenomenon occurred in the last eon, Garrick?"
"Never would be my guess."
The king appeared quite agitated and the warrior watched him closely. Could Jamen face the unthinkable? Would the monarch dismiss the word of a man he had not really known in over thirty years? Garrick wouldn't be surprised if he did.
"Do you have any proof?" Jamen asked, voicing the question Garrick had expected all along.
"I can take you to the grave if you wish and show you the mark. The days have been quite cold; I don't expect the body has turned too far."
"I cannot disappear for a few days without arousing suspicion," the king answered, shaking his head. "And I think the last thing we need is my entourage as witness."
Garrick nodded. "You could inquire about the episode in Kaslow." Again the troubled leader shook his head. Any inquiries other than those befitting the ruler of Isaencarl would raise a few eyebrows. They sat in silence for a few more minutes, then Jamen abruptly rose to his feet. Garrick quickly followed suit.
"Well, Garrick," the king said as he put on his cloak, "It looks as though I will have to take you at your word. I will summon Orneson to review the current roster and assignments. I will meet again with you two nights from now but you must come to the palace. It is too suspicious for me to leave the castle in such a manner." Jamen withdrew a paper from his cloak and handed it to Garrick. "This will give you passage into the royal castle. Enter through the door to at the south end. You will find stairs to the left. Descend the stairs and wait in the room at the foot of those stairs. I may be delayed for a time. I will send word here if something is to change."
"Sire, since it is likely that I am still hunted, it is best for me to move. You can send word to Emin at the Foxtail Inn."
Jamen smiled but it was a wary smile. "Very well, Emin. I will see you in two days hence, just after dark." He started for the door.
Garrick quickly opened the door and lowered his head, gazing at the monarch's boots. "Sire. Thank you for coming," he said timidly, lifting his eyes. "I know this seems unimaginable. It does to me. Thank you for not dismissing it as the ravings of an old man."
"Garrick, I admit that I am skeptical but I would be a fool to ignore a situation with such grave consequences. Do not fret. I will give this matter serious consideration." The king smiled noncommittally and strode out.
Garrick watched the hooded figure descend the stairs, the heavy step and sagging shoulders obvious signs of the terrible burden his childhood friend now bore. He closed the door and fell heavily into his chair by the window. The tension since the incident had seemed a crushing weight so the relief that he now felt at knowing he’d done nothing wrong was equally immense. Killers might still pursue him but they were the evil ones, not he. He also felt considerable relief at having shared his terrible secret, and with the highest authority in the entire realm. With his burdens considerably lessened, at least for a time, he suddenly felt exhausted. Barely able to keep his eyes open, he shuffled from the chair to the bed. There, he fell instantly into a deep, restful, and well-earned sleep.
Unfortunately, such peace was short-lived.
Chapter 4
The following afternoon, the king entered a small private chamber adjoining the throne room where he conducted most of the day's business. Guard matters were, to say the least, sensitive and were never conducted in the main hall. A thin, nervous-looking man in his fifties rose quickly and bowed before the monarch. Jamen turned and nodded to the room’s lone sentry, who shut the door, leaving Jamen alone with the man. Such trust was granted to only a handful of people in the entire realm.
"Orneson, good to see you!" the king said enthusiastically, "You did not have to rush down here so soon." He had sent a messenger that morning, inviting the guardsman leader to visit him when convenient, knowing that Orneson would come right away, no matter how casually the invitation was worded.
"I am honored by the opportunity to share Your Majesty's valuable time," responded the administrator formally.
Jamen studied the man for a moment. Orneson had aged considerably in the last few years. Jamen knew him to be close in age to Garrick and solidly built but the guardsman leader looked much older and so slight he seemed frail by comparison. His thin, gray hair was combed straight back from his fleshy, ruddy face. Bad vision and constant squinting, the monarch assumed, explained the permanent scowl on his face and he stooped with his hand on the back of his chair, appearing to be on the verge of toppling over.
"Be seated," the king invited as he chose a chair.
Orneson sat down at the far side of the table once the king was seated. He sat quietly while waiting for Jamen to speak but his pale, clouded eyes darted about rapidly, constantly searching throughout the room. It looked to Jamen as though the guardsman chief expected an ambush at any moment.
"Orneson, the reason I asked you to come is that I have a task suited to someone from your organization."
Orneson started to look through some documents on the table in front of him.
"Sire, if you would be so kind as to elaborate some details, I will gladly come up with some candidates," the guardsman leader hurriedly replied. Orneson talked in bursts between gasps, as if each phrase would be his last.
The king leaned forward. "Sir," he began in a confiding tone, "This is a sensitive matter and, although I would dearly benefit from your assistance with this problem, I cannot divulge any details at this point. Therefore, it would be extremely helpful if you review, for me now, all the active guardsmen and their current assignments."
This development clearly agitated the guardsman leader, who appeared even more nervous than before, a feat Jamen would not have thought possible. Orneson rifled through the papers in front of him and sputtered as he tried to reply.
Jamen cut the fidgety administrator off before he could speak, "Besides, it has been a long time since we reviewed the assignments together. You prepare yourself and I will summon refreshments."
> The king smiled at Orneson and rose. Orneson was so flustered that he forgot, for a moment, that he remained seated while the king stood. Realizing the gaff, he nearly toppled over as he staggered to his feet but made no further protest. Jamen had squelched any hope of escape with his remark about their joint review of the guardsman assignments. Originally, the active leadership of the King’s Guard was shared between the king and a guardsman representative chosen by his comrades. Over time, though, the size of the force had grown such that it had come to require too much of the ruling king’s or queen’s time to have them closely involved. Since then, a leader and a few assistants managed the Guard and it became the practice of the monarch to be involved on more of a policy or strategy basis.
It had also become a practice, although exercised less often, for the current sovereign to review, and perhaps alter, the individual guardsman assignments periodically. Jamen knew that his father, King Graben, had requested a review on just a few occasions during his long reign. And Jamen had, in fact, not yet exercised the review option since his ascension to the throne. Therefore, while the review request was perfectly valid, it did appear to unnerve the guardsman leader.
While Orneson composed himself, Jamen summoned a servant and ordered refreshments. Jamen motioned for the other man to continue his preparations while the king waited near the door for the servant to return. The identity of the guardsman leader was an especially closely guarded secret, since he held possession of each active guardsman's file, a brief record of the man's assignments since leaving the academy.