The Fanged Crown tw-1

by Jenna Helland

  “You’re killing him,” Harp repeated quietly, shrugging off the hands of the men holding him back.

  “I’m a fair man,” Predeau said. “He’s got more lashes coming to him. You can, of course, be his proxy.”

  “I’ll take them.”

  Predeau grinned. “Fine. Up on deck.”

  “Let someone see to Kitto.”

  “That wasn’t part of the offer,” he said, stepping over Kitto’s bruised body on the way up to the deck.

  That night, the blood soaked through Harp’s shirt, ran down his trouser legs, and stained the inside of his boots. He couldn’t lie down, and he could barely stand up. When he joined the boys in their quarters, Mallie held a flask of whiskey to his lips and told Harp that the captain had locked Kitto up in the cell with Liel, that there were murmurs among the sailors that Predeau had gone too far this time.

  Through teeth gritted in pain, Harp whispered his plan to the boys. As he told them what he wanted them to do-if they were willing-his mind was on the key in the captain’s quarters. He would take it from that bastard. Then he would get Liel and whatever was left of Kitto off that floating tomb forever.

  “I’m not going to lie to you,” he said in a hushed voice, looking down at the five grubby faces assembled in front of him. “What I’m asking isn’t an easy thing. But he won’t stop at Kitto. One day it could be one of you under that lash.”

  He looked carefully for fear on their features. But he didn’t find any. What he saw gave him a sense of hope.

  “Shaun, you’re on the armory door,” he said, and the boys nodded. “Mallie, you’ll rouse the men. You know which ones will follow. Bristol, you ready two boats. If nothing else, just get away.

  “When you see the light in the captain’s window, then you’ll know what to do.”

  Standing behind Predeau, Harp pressed his dagger against the big man’s throat. Grabbing a handful of the captain’s long hair, Harp yanked Predeau’s head back till he could see the thick blue vein pulsing on the side of the man’s neck. Despite the precariousness of his position, Predeau didn’t seem concerned, and was still issuing orders to Harp as if he were in control of everything that was happening.

  “If you touch that lantern, boy, I’ll see to it that your skin is flayed off your back and hung on the mast to dry.”

  Harp’s face was swollen and cut, and he felt like he was bleeding from both eyes. He could barely stay on his feet, much less keep the blunt dagger in his hands from shaking. Harp had been on the short end of several beatings in his younger years, and the shame of being hit was something no man talked about-how taking that first punch makes you feel like an idiot. Harp had taken his first punch at age seven, from some of the older kids in the village. Horrified at the tears that had filled his eyes, he had launched himself at his attacker, only to be smacked down. The second punch had knocked him to his knees, but had brought out a rage that had him on his feet again, charging head first into the older boy, who was twice his age.

  He’d put his attacker down that day, earning a reputation among his fellows. Quick on his feet, with a fist that could knock a man unconscious in one blow, Harp had rarely lost a fight since. But Predeau outweighed him and wore metal rings on his fingers that had split the skin on Harp’s face wide open.

  “I had high hopes for you, Harp,” Predeau said. “You might pretend to be noble. But inside you’re just like me.”

  After months of watching the captain inflict pain on the weak purely for pleasure, Harp had grown to despise Predeau. But that night, with Kitto bleeding out in the darkness of the hold, Harp felt a hatred for the captain like nothing he’d ever experienced. It felt like a burning poison flowing through his body, and killing was the only antidote. Being compared to the vile captain was worse than an insult. It was a terrifying reminder that Harp was just a few sins away from having a rotted, irreplaceable soul.

  “I’m nothing like you,” Harp said, pressing the blade harder against Predeau’s neck. The big man didn’t even flinch. Maybe Predeau was toying with Harp, the way he toyed with all his victims before he stomped the life out of them. Harp’s eyes darted from the lantern on the desk beside him to the high windowsill, trying to gauge how he was going to keep Predeau at bay long enough to lift the light to the window.

  Suddenly the captain began to chuckle, a maniacal sound that made the hairs on Harp’s arm bristle.

  “I know what’s keeping you, boy. You can kill me and get out alone. Or you can go for the lantern, and hope your fellows are waiting below for your signal to rise up and take my ship. But you have doubts, don’t you? They might be tucked up like little bedbugs, not caring one bit about you, the lantern, or your whore.”

  Harp cursed the captain under his breath. Predeau was speaking the truth. Harp had no idea if the sailors would find the courage to step out in the brewing storm and take up arms. Predeau ruled them with an iron fist, but at least they knew what to expect every day. Once they unsheathed their swords against their master, all that lay before them was the unknown.

  Who was Harp to make them choose? Shouldn’t he let them be idle in their familiar lives, as meek as fawns? Normally, he would have bowed to the slow momentum of change and done nothing. But his decision had a leyline that was guiding Harp toward the rising sun. It was Kitto who was waiting for him, like a son trusting that his father wouldn’t let him down. And, more than anything, Harp wanted Kitto to have a life.

  “You’re always alone,” Predeau said in his booming voice. “There’s no one out there in the rain and wind. And if you let me go, I’ll slaughter you like a pig. Take the kill and be done with it.”

  But Harp wasn’t sure he could get a kill with the blunt dagger. For all he knew, Predeau veins were made of metal, and the bastard was just baiting him. And whether the others rose up was out of his hands now. He’d given them the choice, and if they wanted to live like chattel for the rest of their lives, he couldn’t make them fight. Harp had the key to free Kitto and Liel in his pocket. He would get out, or he would die trying.

  As Harp shoved Predeau’s head toward the table, he sliced the knife back against the captain’s throat. Predeau’s face slammed into the edge of the wooden tabletop, and he crashed to the floor. Harp dropped the dagger, grabbed the lantern, and hoisted it to the high window. He just had time to shove it on the ledge and leap toward the closed door before Predeau was back on his feet. With a sadistic grin, Predeau grabbed a heavy wooden chair and hurled it at Harp with no more effort than if he were throwing a bread roll to a dinner mate. Harp dodged the chair, rolling out of the way as it splintered against the wall. The impact knocked the lantern off the ledge where it smashed onto the floor into glass shards, oil, and flame.

  Though the lantern was gone from the window, it should have been enough. If the sailors were in the darkness waiting, they would have seen the light and recognized Harp’s signal. Both Harp and Predeau froze, even though the fire was spreading across the floor as the lamp oil seeped into the wooden planks. All they heard was the hiss of the flames, the sails cracking in the wind, and the rain hammering against the deck.

  Predeau loomed over him. “You made the wrong choice.” He raised his foot and stomped on Harp’s hand. Harp cried out at the impact. He heard a cracking noise; it felt like every one of his fingers had been broken under Predeau’s steel-toed boots. Then Harp felt a pounding vibration through the deck of the ship. The rhythmic pounding increased in volume as he heard voices shouting Predeau’s name. In two strides, Predeau crossed the cabin and threw open the door. Outside, the men stood defiantly on deck as the ship tossed in the rough waves and the rain pounded the boards. It wasn’t just Harp’s boys either, but many of the older men as well. Swords in hand, they were about to take their freedom.

  “Harp!”

  Harp didn’t turn toward Boult’s voice. His hand was resting on the tree, and his thoughts were firmly elsewhere.

  “Harp!” Boult marched up beside him and glared up at him. “Stop day
dreaming,” he ordered. “It’s not her. Unless she shrunk to dwarf size and gained a substantial amount of weight.”

  That snapped Harp back to the present. “It’s a dwarf?”

  “Didn’t I just say that?”

  “No, you said she shrunk to dwarf size.”

  “The corpse is a dwarf. It’s not Liel.”

  “How do you know?”

  Boult stared at Harp in frustration. “Because it’s dwarf-sized,” he sputtered. “She’s got dwarf-sized bones and a dwarf-sized head, and it’s a dwarf’s corpse. This is the stupidest conversation we’ve had with each other in a decade of stupid conversations.”

  “Couldn’t it be a small human?”

  Boult rolled his eyes. “I’m going to forgive you for asking such a ridiculous question because you’re distracted by thoughts of your long lost love.”

  “She’s not my long lost-”

  “Blah, blah, blah. You’re only lying to yourself.”

  “Where in the realms did a dwarf come from?” Harp said ignoring Boult’s comment. “There weren’t any in the colony.”

  Boult shook his head. “They live here.”

  “In the jungle?”

  “You think we all live in mountains digging for gem stones?”

  “Well … yes.”

  Boult glared at him. “Shows what you know. We live everywhere. We live in the mountains. We live in the cities. We live in the jungles. We sail the oceans.”

  “No, you don’t. You’re the only dwarf in Faerun who’ll set foot on a ship, and you do a piss poor job of it.”

  “Well at least I can tell a dwarf from a human. You’re dumber than a starving ship rat.”

  Harp’s demeanor softened. “It’s not Liel,” he said, as if he finally believed it. “It’s not Liel. Which means we haven’t actually found what we’re looking for.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  30 Hammer, Year of Splendors Burning

  (1479 DR)

  Winter Palace, Tethyr

  Tresco Maynard had seen the dense fog roll across the courtyard and cover the earth like a shroud. He hoped Evonne was safe within the walls of the Winter Palace, but couldn’t take time to find her because he was obligated to search for his student Daviel, who had disappeared for the third time in a tenday. Tresco wasn’t worried about Daviel, who was probably sneaking off to see a village girl, but he had to keep up the appearance of concerned tutor or risk losing his position entirely through rumors.

  Outside the door of the kitchen, Tresco adjusted the brown cape on his shoulders and tucked it over the crook of one arm. If the cooks gave him any lip, he would have them all sent packing, he thought angrily as he shoved open the door.

  But the warm, sweet-smelling room was deserted. Puzzled, Tresco walked past long tables laden with steaming dishes full of meat, soups, and spiced fruit. There were loaves of soft bread cooling on wooden racks, and the fires were stoked high in the massive ovens. But where were the cooks? Dinner was slated to begin despite Queen Anais’s absence, and the servants should have been loading the silver serving carts. Suddenly, a cold breeze swept across the room, making Tresco’s hands ache and putting a chill in his bones.

  A door had been left open somewhere. Tresco pulled his woolen hood over his graying hair and flexed his stiff fingers. He was twenty years past his youth but still a powerfully built man and handsome despite his years. The infirmity in his hands was the first thing that truly made him feel old.

  Tresco pulled a red leather pouch embossed with the circular crest of Kinnard Keep, his ancestral house, from under his cloak and took a pinch of black leaf. He placed it between his gums and cheek and waited until the tingling spread into his fingers. There were many things he didn’t like about getting old, but that was no matter. He must find Daviel before dinner, if indeed there would be a dinner that night. Tresco was supposed to be a tutor, not a nanny. Keeping up with an active prince was a job for a younger man.

  Tresco left the kitchen area and moved into the workshop where the blacksmith and coopers worked during the day. The forges were dampened, and only a few lanterns cast light on the sawdust floor. He left the workshop and continued down a narrow corridor. The air seemed wetter the farther he walked down the passageway, so the open door must be somewhere up ahead. Tresco had been to the Winter Palace many times and had a vague recollection of the haphazard floor plan-each generation built new additions to the sprawling palace without anything but temporary functionality in mind. The result was a maze of low-ceilinged walkways and dank storage rooms with mossy walls.

  He’d been to the lower levels of the palace on several occasions in years past when he had been tutor for one of Daviel’s uncles. In fact, Tresco had been a tutor for young men of the noble bloodlines for years. Yet even as one of the most sought-after tutors for royalty in Tethyr, he was underestimated by his peers.

  Tresco remembered the days of his youth when ideas used to catch his mind and hold it like a vice. The hours of study would pass from day into night before Tresco looked up from a book or noticed the gripping pain of hunger in his belly. Unfortunately, those days were long past. Tresco’s mind wandered aimlessly, like a lost traveler in an inhospitable land. Except for a few personal projects, Tresco had given up study altogether. Teaching had simply become a necessary, if unwanted, pastime. Daviel was bright enough, but unfocused, and Tresco barely had the will to keep him at his books.

  Besides, he had more important things to think about. Like Evonne and all her talk of death, the jungle, and those disturbing tales of the sarrukh and their penchant for eating the flesh of the lesser races. Evonne had a vivid way of expressing herself, which was not appropriate for a woman of her stature, in Tresco’s opinion. She was strong-willed, a quality that intrigued Tresco, almost despite himself. But she was the woman who should be queen! Evonne shouldn’t concern herself with such disturbing things.

  The last time he saw Evonne was a month before, when they had spent a few days together at Lindenhall, north of the Skyhart Waterfall. One night after dinner, she had begun talking about her impending death and how there was nothing anyone could do to stop it. It was the first time he’d ever seen Evonne cry, and it made him want to take her someplace far away-a place with thick walls and towers to the sky and locks no one could ever breach-and keep her safe forever.

  After the emotional tenor of the evening, Tresco had felt closer to Evonne than ever before; it may well have been the most intense moment of his life-outside of the violent brawls of his youth. He and Evonne had been lovers for almost a year, but it had been sporadic, and at her insistence, secret. Before those days at Lindenhall, an afternoon was the longest he’d ever spent with her. Whenever they were together, it was always brief and always at her convenience, leaving Tresco with the unfortunate impression that Evonne saw their companionship as a token of her generosity.

  But the night he’d held Evonne while she confessed her fear of death, everything had changed. Since his youth, Tresco had viewed women with little more than disdain. As soon as a woman fancied herself irreplaceable, he invariably grew weary of her company. He thought he was happily committed to an uncommitted life. But Evonne was unique. For the first time, he wanted a woman with a lasting, perhaps unceasing, desire.

  So his tasks for the evening were to round up Daviel, change into dress attire for dinner, and spend the evening with a crowd of influential nobles, none of whom were in on the delicious secret-that Tresco was the secret lover of one of the most beautiful and important women in all of Tethyr.

  Suddenly, a strong blast of frigid wind swept through the corridor extinguishing the lanterns and throwing Tresco into darkness. He stood quietly for a moment, his body trembling more from the chill than fear. He could hear rustling nearby. Whether it was vermin or something larger, he couldn’t determine. After a few moments, he mumbled under his breath and moved his hands sharply, and the lanterns along the corridor flared with orange flame.

  Tresco was no innocent. He had seen thing
s, particularly in his adventurous youth, that were seared into his memory, as bloody and as horrible as the very day that he had first witnessed them. But in the instant after the light bloomed from his hands, he saw Evonne in the corridor in front of him, her long blonde hair loose on her shoulders, and her flowing white dress stained with blood.

  Tresco’s heart skipped. His vision cleared. It was not Evonne, but her daughter, Ysabel, in the bloodstained dress, her bare feet and heart-shaped face smeared with something thick and dark. How foolish to mistake the child for her mother. But Evonne had been in his thoughts at the moment the darkness fell.

  “Ysabel!” Tresco said, choking on her name. He knew all the cousins by name, and they all referred to him as Uncle, a familiarity he begrudgingly permitted. “What are you doing here!”

  “Looking for Cousin Daviel,” she said, peering up at him intently.

  “As am I,” Tresco said. “But this is no place for a child. Go back to the main corridor and wait there. I will continue to search for Daviel.”

  “It’s no matter, Uncle,” she said quietly, her blue eyes unnaturally wide. “I’ve found him already.”

  Evonne Linden was killed in Celleu the same night that the children were massacred in the Winter Palace. After a lengthy discussion in their private chambers in the palace at Darromar, the men of the Inquiry settled on “unbelievable irony” over ”unprecedented coordination.” Their official position was that a bandit climbed up the trellis to Evonne’s second-story window, unlatched the shuttered window, and suffocated her as she slept. Then he stole an embroidered bag that servants had seen her carrying earlier in the day-it was the only thing missing from her quarters- and disappeared into the night without the guards in the hallway ever hearing a sound.