By Dark Deeds (Blade and Rose Book 2)

by Miranda Honfleur

  “—and I say this not to inflate my own importance, but to offer you my assistance. I’ve been posted as a guard to the palace dungeon since Hallowday, and I know every prisoner here by name.” He stopped, placing his torch in a holder. “If I can help bring the villain who hired the Crag to justice, then it will be my honor.”

  Honor. Yes, of course, but there was more to this paladin’s offer of assistance than he was saying. She rested a hand on her hip. “What’s your name, Sodalis?”

  The paladin removed his helm and bent in a practiced bow. “Sir Edgar Armurier, Sodalis of the Order of Terra, second rank, Monas Amar Third Company, at your service, Lady Archmage.”

  His maple-brown hair shone reddish in the torchlight, a stark contrast to his ivory skin. Clean shaven like all paladins, he nevertheless sported a shadow of facial hair. But in the light, the freshness of youth still in his face, he could be no more than a year or two over twenty.

  “Armurier?” she asked.

  Straightening, he nodded. “My father is an armorer in Sauveterre. I’m his third son.”

  Even tradesmen groomed only an heir and a spare, but unlike the Houses, they could rarely countenance the cost of caring for many more children.

  Papa and Mama had been less obvious, but they made no secret of scrambling for a betrothal for her sister, Aerin. And when Killian had taken a job at twelve, they hadn’t forbidden it. Such were the ways of poorer families. And Sir Edgar seemed as well versed in them as she.

  Yet, as badly as she wanted justice for James and Anton and to find Rielle, she would play unwitting tool to no one. “And what is it you really want, Sir Edgar?” She circled him slowly, and when he opened his mouth, she cut him off. “And don’t say ‘honor.’ You’ve already said that one.”

  He closed his mouth and hesitated. “Knighthood.”

  So that was it. His Majesty and the Paladin Grand Cordon had agreed to offer a limited number of knighthoods to distinguished paladins in order to replenish ranks, and Sir Edgar, of the mere second rank and no more than twenty years of age, couldn’t hope to find himself among that number.

  But with a grand feather in his cap like apprehending the Crag Company’s elusive client, he’d distinguish himself all right.

  He could prove useful.

  She nodded. “Very well, Sir Edgar. Assist me with this investigation, and when we find the person responsible, I’ll put in a good word for you with His Majesty.” She extended her hand. “On my word.”

  He shook it. “To the start of a beautiful partnership.” His face brightened with a lopsided smile.

  “So, Benoit Donnet?”

  Sir Edgar grabbed the torch he’d placed and walked her farther down the cell block. “He’s a funny little man, Donnet. We haven’t questioned him since intake—we focused on the major players in the Crag Company itself—so other than his daily essentials, he probably hasn’t had much contact.”

  Long days and nights spent in the endless dark, accompanied by the skittering of vermin and the ceaseless sounds of flowing water. Endless hours of boredom, madness. Yes, she knew it. She knew it well.

  Free.

  When Sir Edgar stopped and placed the torch in a holder, she studied the nearby cells separated by thick stone walls, squinting to discern the figures huddled in dark corners.

  “This one.” Sir Edgar nodded toward a farther cell. “For your safety, you may not enter it.”

  “I am the Archmage,” she shot back, enunciating each word with the requisite gravity. “But I do not need to enter.”

  Within, a small, lean man sat primly against the wall, his back ramrod straight, his chin high, dignified. His slicked-back gray hair, secured with a tie at the nape, looked almost neat from afar, until the shine of grease caught the light. What looked like a formerly fashionable mustache had grown into an unruly beard, gray and white whiskers tufting over his jaw and neck.

  Despite his rigid dignity, his dark eyes fixed on her, through her, and his silent desperation mirrored what she had once felt. She’d looked at Anton the same way once.

  He rose, dusted off his grimy clothes, neatened them, and then took a proper bow.

  “Monsieur Donnet?” She presented herself before the bars. “I am Archmage Olivia Sabeyon.”

  “The pleasure is all mine, Your Ladyship,” he replied, his voice a hoarse but refined tenor. He inclined his head toward the bars. “May I approach?”

  “Please.”

  He strode nearer but halted an arm’s length away. Non-threatening. Courteous. “To what do I owe the honor?”

  The records she’d requested from the Order had said he’d been Gilles’s household chamberlain in Kirn, his right hand, and when word of the siege’s breaking had reached Kirn, he’d seen the Gilles family safely to a ship, but had remained behind to resolve financial matters. Paladins had taken him into custody before he could complete his task.

  “You worked as a chamberlain for Evrard Gilles, did you not?” she asked.

  “Yes, that is correct, as I told the fine paladins of the Order nearly two months ago.”

  She ignored his complaint. “And what did you do for him during the course of your employment?”

  He pulled his shoulders back. “I managed the household staff, personally took care of my lord and lady’s chamber, and managed the household budget—paying expenses, collecting taxes, payments, and so on.”

  “You personally collected payments?”

  “Yes,” he said, recognition flickering in his eyes. “But only for my lord’s personal accounts. Regrettably, I have no knowledge of any payments he may have received on behalf of the Crag Company.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Regrettably?”

  He raised his arms and held them out to his sides. “I am an old man, Your Ladyship, and my lord is dead. If there were anything I could tell you about him to secure my release, I would.”

  He was still loyal to Gilles, knew nothing relevant, or didn’t realize he knew something relevant. She would find out which.

  “Did you accept any large sums on Gilles’ behalf?”

  “Nothing out of the ordinary.”

  “Did Gilles meet with wealthy individuals?”

  He shook his head. “My lord’s wealth far exceeded that of his circle’s. But he wished to ascend in society, among the Houses. His wish never came to fruition.”

  Naturally. While nobles who ran Free Companies were held in high esteem and often retained for small border disputes—at criminal fees—a commoner running a Free Company was often retained as a last resort, taking jobs few Free Companies would.

  Like killing the entire Emaurrian royal family.

  “What about the Gilles family?”

  He pressed his lips into a thin line. “Lady Gilles and the children never supported my lord’s ambitions. I will not endanger them.”

  So he did have limits. But would they hold, if pressed? “Even if their testimony could secure your release?”

  He lowered his gaze, but then raised it to hers once more. “Even if. Her Ladyship always treated me respectfully, and I love those children as if they were my own.”

  “But you have no qualms about destroying the memory of their father?”

  He frowned. “My lord did that himself.”

  “Well said.” She ran through the possibilities. A chamberlain managed the lord’s chamber—his linens, his wardrobe, his garderobe, his bath, his meals, his correspondence—

  “His correspondence,” she said. “In the past year, what kind of correspondence did Gilles receive?”

  He drew in a slow breath. “Typical items. News, letters from his friends—all commoners, to a one—although—”

  “Although?” She leaned in, and Sir Edgar lightly took her arm to hold her back.

  Donnet frowned. “Well, he had one friend whose identity I did not know. They’d corresponded for years, but in code.”

  That was it. Sir Edgar stiffened next to her.

  “And you didn’t think coded lette
rs were worth mentioning to the Order?” She narrowed her eyes.

  Donnet held up his hands. “They’re gone. My lord burned them. I-I didn’t even know who sent them, or from where. I do not know what there is to mention.”

  Coded letters made for illusive evidence when they no longer existed… and when the witness didn’t know the writer, the place of origin, or the content. She frowned.

  Since her apprenticeship to Leigh, she’d written countless letters. Read countless more. And living away from her family had added to that sum. And as had earning Archmage.

  “Did you have any suspicions about whom it might be?” Sir Edgar interrupted.

  Donnet shook his head.

  If the man had nurtured suspicions, if he truly wanted his freedom, he would have offered.

  No, their answers would come only from what Donnet would have perceived. Sights, sounds, smells… of a letter.

  “What about the materials?” she asked. “The paper, the ink, the seal?”

  His brow furrowed. “Vellum. Iron gall ink. Dry red wax seal. Plain impression.”

  All fairly common. “But if the correspondence was sealed, how did you know the contents?”

  Donnet’s cheeks reddened. “On rare occasions, my lord would… leave open correspondence in his chamber.”

  Snooping. She stifled a smile. “Do you know the bird he used for this correspondence?”

  He shook his head. “No, he didn’t use a bird.” His mouth fell open. “A courier. Always the same man. He’d wait in a local pub for two days for a reply.”

  She grabbed the bars. “Do you know the man?”

  Sir Edgar pulled her back, but she refused to release them. “Lady Archmage—”

  “Yes,” Donnet answered, raising his eyebrows.

  “If I sent an artist, could you—”

  “Yes,” Donnet said, his face alight, “in exchange for my release.”

  She smiled. “If your information leads us to the criminal, you have my word that you will be released. Your sentence will be stayed until our investigation is concluded. Sir Edgar Armurier here, a paladin, a man of impeccable honor, is witness.”

  Donnet bowed. “Then send me this artist, Your Ladyship, and gods’ speed in apprehending the man.”

  If this courier could be found, perhaps he’d lead them straight to the man responsible for James’s death. For Anton’s death. For the king, the entire royal family, and so much of Courdeval. For Rielle’s disappearance.

  She inclined her head. “Thank you for your cooperation, Monsieur Donnet.”

  He mirrored the gesture.

  Sir Edgar took the torch and escorted her back toward the stairs, shaking his head. “A courier…”

  She grinned. “A courier.”

  With a little uncommon thinking, there was finally a solid lead in the search for the Crag Company’s client. All thanks to reexamining Donnet. A man whose vocation had been taking care of Gilles was worth questioning thoroughly, no matter that he had nothing to do with the Crag Company itself.

  “So what’s next?” Sir Edgar asked.

  She drew in a deep breath, rubbing her Ring of the Archmage. “After we have a sketch of the courier and the location of the pub in Kirn, that’s where I’m going, disguised. Perhaps he’ll return there, or maybe someone will know more about him.”

  Sir Edgar stopped. “I’m coming with you.”

  She turned and crossed her arms. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s a week’s ride from here by carriage and—”

  He shook his head. “We had a deal. And I’m making sure you deliver. For both our sakes.” He shrugged. “Besides, I’ve been known to be handy in a fight. Just in case.” He shot her a smile. To no effect. Smug bastard. “Write a letter to my commander and say you need me for your special investigation.”

  She grimaced. They did have an agreement.

  Perhaps she could use the help. No mage partner on this. And she couldn’t risk telling her subordinates. Like it or not, her circle of trust for this investigation extended only to His Majesty and Sir Edgar—for his self-interest. Self-interest, after all, was a trustworthy motivator.

  A letter. She could do that much. “Fine. As agreed, Sir Edgar.”

  He smiled that bright, lopsided grin of his. “I don’t think our disguise will hold up in Kirn if you keeping throwing around ‘Sir.’ Please, call me Edgar.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Fine, Edgar. But it’s still ‘Lady Archmage’ to you until then, and certainly after.” Young upstart.

  He executed an elaborate bow. “I wouldn’t dare suggest anything less, Lady Archmage.”

  She strode toward the stairs, and when his steps fell into line behind her, she grinned.

  James, Anton, and countless victims would find justice. Rielle would be found.

  Olivia straightened. With her spearheading the effort, they’d find this courier and do what the entire Order couldn’t.

  Most days, the working-class people who called Coquelicot District their home made up the bulk of Drina’s clientele, purchasing potions, preventives, salves, and poultices for common diseases that resisted healing. Healing magic, so useful for injuries, hadn’t yet solved the mysteries behind diseases like the Wasting, the Sleeping Sickness, Water-Elf Disease, influenza, hereditary defects, and even the common cold. For these, people flocked to apothecaries for remedies, and her products quickly found a market.

  Some days, nobles thinking themselves stealthy arrived, cloaked and hooded, quietly requesting the unmaking herbs or poultices for the Inamorata. Business brought in good money, more than enough to live on and replenish stock, and a steady trickle of information.

  Today, a woman would come as she did every week to purchase boar’s tooth and fox lungs for her young daughter, who suffered from the Wasting. The remedies were old, and unlikely, but the woman was poor, and it was all she could afford. Or so she believed.

  Her name was Sauvanne Gouin, forty-two years old, a serving woman since her maiden years, born and raised in Courdeval’s Coquelicot District. Widow for six years. Mother to Claire, nineteen years old, a chambermaid in Trèstellan Palace hired when the Order established Jonathan Dominic Armel Faralle as king on Hallowday, and Sophie, age nine, suffering from the Wasting in her bones for two years.

  The woman’s elder daughter had access to anyone and everyone of importance in the palace, and the ability to procure paperwork for a visitor, since courtiers occasionally required apothecaries and surgeons and were often not as outgoing as those nobles who thought themselves so stealthy and visited her stall on some days.

  The woman’s elder daughter was the key to the palace, and to the king.

  Drina spent the day selling and advising, doing her typical business, waiting for the woman to arrive. Sauvanne would be wearing her usual open-weave shawl over her lager-brown frock and white apron.

  The day had almost ended when the gray open-weave shawl appeared in the crowd, wrapped around Sauvanne’s strong shoulders. Her long mahogany locks, tamed in a large bun, must have been beautiful unbound, something many a man must have noticed while leaving coins on The Greasy Spoon’s tables, but few would find worth taking on the expenses of a sick child.

  “How is your young daughter faring?”

  Sauvanne drew in a deep breath. “She can barely move, poor thing, but I pray she’ll improve.”

  Drina brightened and nodded hopefully. “She will. There are some very effective remedies.” You’ll ask me about them.

  Sauvanne smiled, but her eyes remained cold as glass. “I’ve tried so many… Well, what I could afford.” She glanced over the wares, corked bottles, satchels, and boxed powders, amid the many others. “Is there anything new?”

  Never fails. She kept the satisfaction suppressed and tilted her head thoughtfully. “Have you heard of oporavak tea? Sheep sorrel, burdock root, and other purifying herbs used to cure the Wasting. It’s ten coronas a pound.”

  Even among the Houses, few had such funds lying around, but when struck
with the Wasting, they usually found the money. And occasionally survived. Oporavak tea was no scheme.

  Sauvanne nodded solemnly. “I have, yes, but… Ten coronas a pound, I… Unfortunately, it’s just me and my daughter, and I don’t make nearly enough serving at The Greasy Spoon. We already sold our home and have to rent a room. My other daughter, Claire, brings us money every week—she works at the palace, you know—but I don’t think we could afford it.”

  Drina widened her eyes. “At the palace, you say?” When Sauvanne nodded, Drina lowered her gaze and pressed her lips together, furrowing her brow to appear deep in thought. “Although I am most thankful for my business in this district, I have hoped to reach some wealthy clients. Only… It’s difficult from Coquelicot.”

  Sauvanne’s head bobbed as she listened, then frowned, but her frown slowly softened. “Wait… Perhaps you and I might help each other?”

  Drina leaned in, feigning curiosity. All was unfolding as planned. “How so?”

  “My daughter is a chambermaid. Maybe some of the courtiers she serves might be in need of you? Perhaps she could summon you when they need remedies?”

  Drina crossed her arms. “Yes… Yes, and nobles pay well for discretion.” She gave Sauvanne an encouraging smile. “If you could have her arrange such visits, I could procure you some oporavak tea… a dose per visit?”

  Sauvanne’s face lit up as she beamed, tears in her eyes. She took Drina’s hand. “Terra bless you for your kindness!”

  Once Drina had proper documents to enter the palace and access, it would be a small matter to make use of her maps of Trèstellan from the siege and slip into one of the many passageways. She hadn’t explored the palace much beyond the Hall of Mirrors, the dungeon, and the barracks, but she’d remedy that error. From the passageways, every room of worth would be open to her.

  Including the king’s own bedchamber.

  The woman had just given her the king of Emaurria for a dose of oporavak tea. It was pricey, of course, but she never liked to see a child suffer. Two victories in one transaction. She grinned. “My pleasure.”

  With profuse words and bows of gratitude, Sauvanne purchased her usual remedy of boar’s tooth and fox lungs, and left. A little kindness could buy justice.