by Hilari Bell
Justice Holis looked around and adjusted his spectacles. “Let’s all calm down, shall we?”
Weasel thought that was a fine idea, but the knife bit so hard he rose onto his toes to ease the pressure.
“If anyone moves, I’ll kill the boy,” said Pettibone. “I swear I will. And you can’t kill the prince—you need him alive as much as I did.”
The Falcon’s smile never faded. “I only need him alive if I win,” she said. “If I’m losing I’ll take him with me, just to bring you down too. And you will go down without him. You’re still too weak in the countryside.”
“Please,” Prince Edoran gasped. “Please don’t kill me. I’ll … I’ll abdicate. I’ll do whatever you want. Please!” His voice had risen to a wail.
A soft snort caught Weasel’s attention. Arisa must have come into the room during the fighting. She stood against the wall, sensibly out of the way, gazing at the prince with an expression of utter contempt. He looked pretty contemptible, but Weasel couldn’t blame him. If he thought it would work, he’d be begging too.
“The countryside,” Pettibone sneered. “The countryside with its fat, superstitious ignorance, while the city works, and starves, and carries the realm into the future! The worst mistake the king ever made was to start courting those bumpkins!”
The prince froze in the Falcon’s grasp. “Was that why you killed him?” he whispered.
Pettibone ignored him. So did the Falcon.
“And the worst mistake you ever made was to ignore the country folk,” the Falcon told him. “That’s why your reign teeters on a knife edge, right now. That, and killing half the navy. What makes you think I care about Holis’ clerk? No one but me would dare to harm the prince. You knife that clerk, and no one gives a damn.”
Weasel drew a breath to beg.
“I do,” said Justice Holis. “And you … Mistress Benison, I believe? Despite your influence in the navy, you cannot hope to establish control of this land without the support of a large faction of important, powerful men. Not to mention the army. In short, without my support you cannot succeed. And if Weasel dies, you won’t get it.”
Weasel felt the regent’s body stiffen. “You? You’re the one …”
“You’re the one who controls the army?” the Falcon finished for him, echoing his incredulous voice.
In some ways, Weasel realized, they were much alike.
“Let’s say that certain factions in the army would be swayed by my recommendation,” said Justice Holis modestly. He looked from the Falcon to Pettibone and smiled. “We intended to use the law, but we knew we couldn’t count on you to do the same. We had to have some armed force at our command, if only to counter yours.”
“So,” said Pettibone softly. “My hostage is worth something, after all.”
The prince was shaking again. He looked like he’d have collapsed without the support of the Falcon’s arm.
“It won’t do you much good,” the Falcon told Pettibone. “The army isn’t here. My men hold the palace, and I have the prince. You won’t escape this time.”
This time? Weasel felt as if he’d walked into the second act of play—though no actress could have faked the burning hatred in the Falcon’s eyes. Standing in front of Pettibone, Weasel caught the full force of it. She wouldn’t let Pettibone escape, even if she died for it. And took the rest of them with her. In that moment, he was more afraid of the Falcon than he was of the knife.
If what Arisa said was true, if she’d watched the man she loved hang at Pettibone’s command … She had reason.
Pettibone must have seen it too. He took three steps back, dragging Weasel with him, and something warm and wet trickled down his neck. Blood, he realized, though the regent wasn’t trying to cut him. He could die very easily right now, by accident. His heartbeat thundered in his ears.
He didn’t want to die.
“You may have won this round,” said the regent, through gritted teeth, “but I’m not going to die today. Your Highness, get the shield and bring it to me.”
The Falcon’s pistol pressed against the prince’s head. “No,” she said.
“You can’t kill him,” said Justice Holis. “Whoever kills the last of the royal line would win the undying enmity of the countryside—and you can’t afford that either. So let’s all be reasonable, shall we?” He turned to the regent. “I’ll give you the shield in exchange for Weasel. It’s valuable enough to get you out of here, and easier to handle than a live hostage, who might fight or run.”
“Don’t!” said Arisa sharply. “That shield matters in the countryside.”
“Thanks a lot!” Weasel glared at her.
“But it does matter! If he has the shield—”
“The shield is a hunk of wood and metal,” said Justice Holis. “And the country folk are smart enough to recognize that.”
“She’s right,” said the Falcon.
The hand that had grasped Weasel’s elbow let go, and the knife tightened to compensate. Weasel held very still as the regent ran his fingers over the carvings on the dining room wall. A breath of musty air told Weasel that he’d found what he was searching for.
“Rot!” Weasel muttered. “How many passages does this cursed place have?”
The regent laughed soundlessly, his body shaking. He stepped back toward the opening.
The sounds of the fight outside the room were growing fainter. Pettibone heard it too—he didn’t have much more time.
“I am not going to die today,” said the regent. “At least, not alone. Give me the prince.”
Weasel couldn’t see his expression, but Arisa’s face paled suddenly. “Mother?” she whispered.
The Falcon’s smile was bright with malice and triumph. “I’m keeping my hostage. I care nothing for Holis’ clerk.”
“The shield,” Justice Holis said curtly. “We’ll give you the shield. Everyone in the palace knows it’s been found, and anyone who challenges you will care more about damaging that than about Weasel. Anyone but …”
Anyone but me. Weasel guessed how the justice would have finished that sentence, and for just a moment, an aching warmth pushed the fear from his heart.
“Cut your losses,” Holis whispered. “Take the shield.”
“I suppose …” Pettibone’s grip softened a fraction. “I suppose it’s the best deal I’m going to get. Enough for a start, at least.”
“No!” The Falcon lifted her pistol and pointed it straight at Weasel’s head. No, she was pointing it at Pettibone’s head. It just looked like it was pointed at him. Weasel did not consider this an improvement.
“If he has the shield, he can start a rebellion of his own!” the Falcon continued. “It would never end.”
“The shield, or the boy,” said Pettibone.
Justice Holis started forward, but Arisa ran down the room and snatched up the shield before he could touch it.
“Good girl,” said the Falcon. “Bring it here.”
Arisa looked at her mother and her mouth tightened. She turned and walked steadily toward Pettibone, ignoring her mother’s startled curse.
“Wise child,” murmured Pettibone. “And you were right—I would have killed him. Give the boy the shield.”
“Don’t!” said the Falcon furiously.
“You said you’d let him go,” Arisa protested.
“As soon as I’m free of this room,” Pettibone told her. “Killing him would delay me, and there’s no reason for me to do it … as long as I’m free.”
He might even mean it. Weasel couldn’t be sure.
Arisa’s gaze met his, guarded, intent. Was she trying to convey some plan? If so, she failed—perhaps because the regent’s knife and the Falcon’s pistol were occupying most of Weasel’s thoughts. She held out the shield, and Weasel fumbled his hands through the rough wooden grips.
“Lift the shield to cover us,” said Pettibone sharply, as Arisa backed away. Weasel wasn’t sure if the ancient shield would deflect the Falcon’s bullet, but it m
ight. He raised it, covering everything but his eyes and feet—perforce, it covered Pettibone, too.
“Stop!” The Falcon’s finger tightened on the trigger. Weasel lifted the shield higher. Would it stop a bullet?
“Don’t!” Justice Holis exclaimed. “If you sacrifice that boy to your vengeance, I swear to the One God you’ll hang for it.”
For herself, the Falcon might not have cared, but Weasel saw her eyes flick to Arisa. If she hanged, her daughter might follow.
Pettibone saw the Falcon’s quick look too. He laughed again, aloud this time, right in Weasel’s ear.
No, his mouth was above Weasel’s ear. They might have been the same height, but those absurd heels lifted him almost half a head taller than Weasel. Almost.
The Falcon’s finger eased back on the trigger, though the pistol still pointed at Pettibone’s head.
“Let him go,” said Justice Holis softly. “He’s harmless without the prince.”
“Don’t,” said Edoran suddenly. The prince’s face was as white as his shirt, and the indentation of the Falcon’s pistol barrel still marked his temple, but his voice was firm. “If he escapes now, he’ll never be punished. He’ll never pay.”
He pushed at the Falcon’s arm, and to Weasel’s astonishment, she let him go. But the prince didn’t run—he stood, staring at Pettibone.
“Don’t let him escape. I …” Edoran’s chin rose defiantly. “I command it.”
This isn’t the time to grow a spine! Weasel glared at the prince, but everyone else ignored him.
Pettibone vented another soundless puff of laughter, and some of the tension eased from his body. He had the shield—he would escape with his life. And the Falcon was right: With the true shield to give him legitimacy, he would start his own rebellion. He would fight, and if he won, Justice Holis and the Falcon would be killed. And Arisa, too. Even if he lost, hundreds, maybe thousands, of others would die. And Weasel was tired of this selfish, evil man.
He met the Falcon’s gaze and held it.
He couldn’t trust her for mercy, or honor, but he trusted her courage and her hate. He remembered Arisa saying that her mother never allowed hatred to affect her judgment.
He prayed it wouldn’t affect her aim.
Weasel lowered the shield. “Fire,” he told the Falcon. “Now.”
The Falcon did.
CHAPTER 12
The Two of Stones: the wedding. A prosperous alliance of any kind.
The thunder of the Falcon’s pistol was deafening. Weasel felt the shock rip through the regent’s body, and something warm splashed the side of his face. The knife sliced his skin as Pettibone was hurtled back. Weasel lifted a trembling hand to the cut. It was bleeding, but not much. Shallow. He wasn’t going to die.
Three running steps took him into Justice Holis’ arms. They closed around him, warm and safe, and he buried his face in the rough wool of the justice’s coat. It smelled of unwashed bodies and prison food. The justice smelled as if no one had offered him a bath in two weeks, and the shield, which Weasel still gripped with one hand, was jabbing him in the ribs, but he wouldn’t have moved for the world. He started to shake, but that was all right. Standing in Justice Holis’ embrace and shaking was all he intended to do for the next week or so. Possibly a month.
“That was extraordinary,” said the justice. “And not at all what I expected from … Curse you, child, you could have been killed! Why did you do it?”
For you. For everyone. For the future.
“I don’t know,” said Weasel. “Pretty stupid, huh?”
“Humph.” The justice removed one arm from Weasel’s shoulders. Weasel didn’t want to open his eyes, but a pistol shot in the corridor lent him motivation.
Justice Holis stepped forward and pulled Edoran against his other side. Weasel felt a surge of jealousy, but he could feel the prince’s shaking right through the justice’s body. What a pitiful thing he was. He’d been in no danger. But the way he was quaking, maybe he didn’t realize that. A flash of pity dimmed the envy. Weasel had Justice Holis’ love. He could spare the prince a reassuring arm.
But Holis wasn’t looking at either of them.
“Put that thing away,” he said quietly. “It won’t do you any good.”
The Falcon had drawn the second pistol from her belt, but it wasn’t pointed at anyone. On the other hand, as good a shot as she was, it didn’t have to be. She had hit Pettibone and missed Weasel completely.
Arisa clung to her mother, with the Falcon’s left hand resting on her shoulder, staring at Pettibone’s body. Her face was so white that her freckles stood out like paint. Her expression made Weasel glad he wasn’t looking. She talked tough, but … Was this the first time Arisa had seen violent death? Weasel had seen it several times, in the lean, lonely years before the justice took him in. That was why he’d stopped talking tough.
The Falcon was watching Justice Holis. “I still have a pistol,” she said. “And my men are outside.”
“Ah, but unless I’m misreading the situation in the corridor …”
The door burst open, and a man in the dark blue coat of an army officer stalked in, followed by half a dozen soldiers. “What in the One God’s name is going on here?”
“… I have the army,” Justice Holis finished. “Hello, Diccon. This is very well timed.”
Now the Falcon had a target for her pistol.
The officer ignored her. “We heard that an army of ruffians was sacking the palace. Which wasn’t far wrong, come to that. We’ve got them pinned down for the moment, and the palace guard, as well. What we could find of them. Your doing, Holis? A bit … noisier than your usual style.”
“No, the credit for this goes to the lady,” Justice Holis told him.
“Then my hat’s off to you, Mistress,” said the officer, matching the gesture to the word. “I couldn’t come up with a way to rescue them without getting them …” His gaze fell on Weasel—no, not on Weasel, on the shield in Weasel’s hands. “Is that the shield? The servants were talking about it, but I couldn’t believe …”
The soldiers were gawking at the shield too, paying no heed to the Falcon. “You think that’s really it?” Weasel heard one of them whisper.
The Falcon lowered the pistol—but she didn’t uncock the hammer. “Getting them out was a secondary goal for me. I just accomplished what I came for.”
The officer pulled his gaze from the shield to examine Pettibone’s body. “So I see. Well, since you’ve taken care of everything else, allow me to attend to the cleanup.”
He waved a couple of men forward, and they picked up the regent’s legs and dragged him out. Despite his resolve not to look, Weasel saw that the bloody hole above the regent’s left eye was smaller than he’d expected. But when he noticed that the entire back of Pettibone’s head appeared to be missing, his stomach heaved and he clutched the justice tighter, taking slow, deep breaths.
Killing Pettibone had probably—almost certainly!—saved countless other lives. He still wished he’d been able to think of some other way.
The prince, he noticed, watched the regent’s body being taken away; his face was completely expressionless.
The officer looked at the smear of blood on the floor and grimaced. “Now what?”
Justice Holis looked at the Falcon. “She’s a criminal,” he said slowly. “And I just saw her shoot a man.” His body was stiff with resolve.
Weasel pulled himself reluctantly from the comforting embrace. “She shot him in defense of the innocent,” he said. “Well, in my defense, but I could pretend to be innocent. And we owe her. You’d have hanged, if it wasn’t for her.”
“You think I don’t know that?” said Justice Holis. “But if we let her escape, she’ll go back to banditry.”
“I was thinking more along the lines of ruling all Deorthas,” said the Falcon coolly. “If I signal for the rest of the palace guard to be released and tell them the army shot their regent, your Diccon might be looking at more of a figh
t than he can handle. Maybe enough that my men could finish off the winner. And I’m still in the same room with His Highness.”
She made no motion to draw attention to her pistol. She didn’t have to. And she had pushed Arisa behind her.
“No!” said Weasel. The thought of more deaths sickened him. “Please. There has to be a way.” He looked from the Falcon’s mocking smile to Holis’ stern face—his judge’s face. Surely he hadn’t brought them here to kill each other, at the end of it.
Edoran muttered something.
“What?” Weasel asked.
The prince drew a breath. “Compromise.” His voice was shaky, but loud enough to be heard. “You could compromise. For instance, I think that shooting was simply justice, long overdue. I could issue a royal pardon for it.”
Oh, now he was issuing pardons. But he looked so pleased with himself that Weasel bit back the sarcastic comment.
Justice Holis shook his head. “Your Highness, people would consider any pardon you issued under these circumstances to be a matter of coercion rather than justice. It would cause more trouble than it prevented, for most of Deorthas would rise against a regent who took power by murdering her predecessor.”
“Not if Pettibone’s guilt could be proved,” said Weasel. The country folk weren’t stupid. Nor was Father Adan, nor most of his congregation. They would understand, if the truth was presented to them. “Maybe we could … I don’t know, try him after the fact. If we had evidence of his crimes.”
“I have the evidence!” exclaimed a muffled voice behind them. They spun and stared at Master Darian, who crouched in a corner, still holding his nose. Weasel had forgotten he was there. “I have papers. I have proof of lots of things he did. I can show you where they’re hidden, if you let me off.”
Holis shook his head. “You were complicit in most of his crimes!”
“I was only a clerk!” Master Darian wailed. “I just took notes and wrote letters. I never did anything, or ordered anything, myself. I just passed his orders on.”