Heden clucked his tongue. “Ask your master. Ask the bishop.”
“I can’t!” Gwiddon shouted, his face smashed. “You don’t…what happened to the Green Order?”
“They’re dead,” he said, looking down at his friend.
“They’re…all of them?” Gwiddon was sprawled on the ground, looking up at Heden, one eye was closing, tears from pain and shock streamed down his face, his nose and mouth were bleeding all over his white ruff. Heden was like a stone statue about to topple over and crush him.
“They’re all dead Gwiddon. And you know why.”
“I don’t.”
“I think you do.”
“I swear to you, I don’t. You’re an arrogate damn you, am I lying to you?!”
Heden shrugged. “You’re lying about something,” he said. “I guess it doesn’t matter what anymore.”
Heden knew it wasn’t really Gwiddon he was angry with. He’d punished Gwidd enough. He turned to leave.
“Have an acolyte look at your face,” Heden said. “Before your eyes swell shut. I’m going to go deal with the bishop now. Avenge some people.”
“You can’t!” Gwiddon called out. Heden opened the door.
“Maybe not,” he admitted. “But he’s an old man. I’ll give him a few surprises.”
Standing in the doorway, fully expecting to die fighting the bishop, or hang for his murder, Heden turned to his friend sprawled on the floor of the tailor’s shop.
It had been four years since the two of them were really friends. All the time in the inn, Heden was basically a ghost. Friend to no one. But they’d once liked each other quite a lot.
“Goodbye Gwidd,” Heden said, and walked away, leaving an empty doorway and bright light streaming in.
“Heden I’m the king’s man!” Gwiddon shouted. His white teeth covered in blood. This was his last gambit. He had to shock Heden out of his murderous rampage.
Moments passed. Then a silhouette in the doorway.
“What?” Heden asked.
“I’m King Richard’s spymaster,” Gwiddon repeated. He could barely see. The whole center of his face was broken. He looked like four men had worked him over.
Heden walked back into the shop, pulled the door closed behind him. He could tell Gwiddon wasn’t lying.
“You’re…,” Heden said, trying to absorb it.
Gwiddon stood up. Swayed, blood and spit oozing in a long slow drip down his lip to the floor.
“That’s impossible,” Heden said.
Gwiddon just shook his head. Used a jacket sleeve to wipe the blood from his mouth, then shrugged and pulled his jacket off revealing the expensive white shirt beneath, already stained with blood.
“That’s impossible,” Heden reiterated, trying to order the facts in his head.
“Alaric is a front,” Gwiddon said.
“That’s not…,” Heden said, and raised both his hands like he were warding something off. “Richard’s spymaster is the Truncheon,” Heden said.
“How…,” now it was Gwiddon’s turn to be astonished. “Who told you that?”
“I spent a year in that fucking war of assassins in Capital!” Heden shouted.
Gwiddon went still. “The Wire,” he whispered.
“He tried to have me killed!” Heden pointed at Gwiddon. The rest of his hand a clenched fist.
“He told me he feared no man,” Heden was yelling now, his arm shaking. “But the Truncheon.”
“I didn’t know you knew,” Gwiddon said.
“And then he told me who the Truncheon was!”
Gwiddon shook his head. “I’m sorry Heden.”
“Why do you seem like you’re telling the truth Gwiddon?!” Heden shouted.
“Because I am.”
“That’s…I’ve met the Truncheon!”
Gwiddon shook his head.
“Another front. A stand-in.” He pulled out another handkerchief reflexively. Pressed it to his face for no real reason. “The man I send to meet the men I cannot be seen meeting with.”
“You’re the bishop’s adjutant,” Heden said, as though stating it clearly would make it true again. As though reality were slipping away and his words were a prayer that would put it back. “You,” he reeled, “you spy on the king for the bishop.”
“No,” Gwiddon said. He pulled out a handkerchief and pressed it against his face. “I infiltrated the bishop’s organization twelve years ago.”
“Twelve….” Heden echoed faintly. Was it possible?
“None of us knew how far I’d be able to take it. Becoming his attaché was just…lucky,” he finished lamely. The man’s fine words now sounded thick and low. He pulled the handkerchief away and looked at the blood. He threw the soiled cloth away.
“You mean…” Heden said, “when we met….”
“I’m sorry. You should know the truth.” Gwiddon swayed in the middle of the shop, blood spattered on the floor.
“You can’t be,” Heden said. “There’s no way you can be the king’s spymaster and the bishop’s and run an entire thieves’ guild on the side! It’s absurd!”
Gwiddon looked at the floor. “It’s easier than you think. And the more power I have, the easier it gets. I don’t get a lot of sleep,” he said.
“Who else knows?” Heden wondered out loud. “The Truncheon…the man I met, does he know? Is he just a fucking actor?”
“’Course he knows. I picked him. He’s good. Looks the part, that’s all that’s important. Says the right things.”
Heden just stared at Gwiddon. Gwiddon, exhausted as much from the moral dilemma as the beating he’d taken, slumped back to the ground.
“It’s just a name,” he said with a shrug. Beaten, bloody, crumpled in a heap, Gwiddon looked pathetic. He was contrite. Ashamed. He was confessing to being one of the most powerful men in the city, and he was ashamed he’d had to lie to his friend. “A reputation. It’s not me.”
Neither man looked at the other. But there in the small room, Heden was aware of how bloody Gwiddon was, and realized something. If this was the Truncheon, then he could have defended himself.
“I almost beat you to death,” Heden said, looking down at his friend. Seeing the damage he’d done to him. He wasn’t sure what was happening, he didn’t know what he thought. He just said the words that came into his head.
“Why didn’t you…if you’re the Truncheon, why didn’t you try to stop me?”
"I'm telling you, I'm not the man you imagine. I'm not an assassin. It's all...politics and double dealing. I'm just a man."
Heden knelt down and prayed over Gwiddon. The man shivered, and his wounds began to heal. Flesh repaired itself, broken ribs and nose knotted back into place. But he was still wet with blood and sweat. He’d be fine in an hour, but he’d walk through the city looking like he’d been beaten within an inch of his life.
Gwiddon ran his fingers over his newly healed and still tingling face. “Thank you,” he said, lamely. Heden stood and offered his friend a hand. Gwiddon took it. Heden pulled him up and they stood there for a moment, hands clasped.
“Heden if anyone ever found out that I run the Moon…even the castellan, if he found out those men are all secretly agents of the king, all those men’s lives are at risk. I told you who I am because you deserved to know the truth,” Gwiddon said.
“The truth?” Heden repeated, unsure now what that word meant. Gwiddon and Heden had come up together. Both in the church. Both servants of Cavall. Gwiddon had been one of the few who hadn’t deserted Heden after Aendrim.
“No one can know I’m the king’s man, Heden,” Gwiddon repeated. “Men would die, good men.”
Heden reeled at the magnitude of the conspiracy. He pressed his palm against his forehead. “No wonder Richard doesn’t have any enemies. You’ve got a third of the thieves in the city spying for him. Do they…do they know they work for the king?”
“They work for me,” Gwiddon corrected. “None of them know who my master is and if anyone found ou
t….”
Heden nodded. “And me too. Me too. I’m part of that fucking network of yours, aren’t I?” He was getting mad now. For some reason, this comforted Gwiddon.
“Heden, they think they’re criminals, but they secretly work for the king. You of all people should…”
“Aren’t I?” Heden barked. His voice bounced around the small room.
“…yes,” Gwiddon admitted. “Richard likes you, Heden. He asks for you.”
“You’re saying when I…when the bishop sent me….”
“Don’t,” Gwiddon warned.
“Was I…?” Heden’s world was unraveling.
Gwiddon held his hands out as though trying to will Heden to stop this line of thought. “There’s no point in….”
“How often was I working for the king, Gwiddon!?”
“There’s no answer to that,” Gwiddon said, so matter of factly that Heden believed it. “You can’t ask and I can’t answer. Best not to think about it. Bishop or the king. It was my judgment every time.”
“Best not to think about it,” Heden repeated dully.
“The Moon is my network. I use it how I see fit. Heden,” he was pleading with his friend for understanding. “Heden overwhelmingly the church and king’s interest are the same.”
“Like me,” Heden said. “I was your tool to use. As you saw fit.”
“The king trusts you,” Gwiddon repeated. It looked to him as though Heden were being physically crushed under the weight of this revealed truth.
“You like the king,” Gwiddon pleaded softly. His face still ached, was still swollen, but he felt like he was the one who’d administered the beating, and Heden the victim.
“You don’t understand,” Heden’s face was expressionless. Dead.
“After Aendrim…after everything that happened you were the only one…,” he couldn’t say it all in one go. Not for the first time, he wished he’d died in the Wode, and Taethan had lived. He felt like he was living a false life in a false world. The wrong world. He had no meaning, no substance here but the horrible awareness that in the right world, he’d be dead and Taethan would be alive and everything would be right.
“We were friends still,” Heden said, dully. “You were my friend after Aendrim, the only one.”
Gwiddon’s heart went still as he realized the manner in which his lie was destroying his friend, in a way he’d never planned on. For a while, no one spoke. But as he had many times before, Gwiddon put the work first and delayed payment on another debt.
“The Green Order,” Gwiddon pressed.
Heden ignored him.
“How did they die Heden?”
Heden hurled a look of fury and blinding rage at Gwiddon.
“Best not to think about it!” he lashed out.
Gwiddon flinched and shrunk. Heden remembered the savage beating he’d just given his friend.
“I’m sorry,” Heden said.
“Heden. I have to know. The Truncheon needs to know.”
Heden shook his head. “I don’t know. It’s got something to do with an army of urq. A big army. The bishop ordered the Green to stand down. He ordered them to let the urq march.” He spoke, but the words had no emotion or humanity in them. “Probably the first order they’d ever received from the bishop. They didn’t know what to do with it. But they couldn’t disobey. They thought disobeying the hierarch would…it was a kind of madness. An order they had to obey, and couldn’t obey. It drove them mad.”
Gwiddon appeared to process this.
“Doesn’t matter,” Heden said.
“It might,” Gwiddon corrected. “Where were the urq marching….”
“I’m going to stop him, Gwiddon.”
“You can’t,” Gwiddon shrugged.
“I’m going to avenge the death of those knights, the people at the keep,” Heden said, and looked out a window for no reason. He wasn’t seeing anything. “He killed them. When he gave the order not to stop those urq, he murdered them just like I’m going to...,” he couldn’t finish the thought. For some reason, he thought of Vanora.
Gwiddon looked at his friend and saw a man he almost didn’t recognize. Gwiddon had known Heden forever, but right now he had no idea what Heden would do, what he could do. The bishop was one of the most powerful men in Vasloria, but Heden seemed capable of anything right now.
“Heden listen to me,” it was Gwiddon’s turn to grab his friend. “Listen to me! Your way won’t work. He’ll eat you alive, Heden. He’ll eat you alive.” Gwiddon was desperate to impress this reality onto his friend.
Heden didn’t react, but didn’t pull away.
“The only way we can bring him down,” Gwiddon said, “is to surround him. He needs to see that he has enemies on every side, that there’s nowhere he can turn. He’s got too much power to….”
Heden pulled his arm away, and turned his dead eyes to Gwiddon. Gwiddon held his gaze. Then he stepped back. He looked at Heden and saw something. A commitment he knew meant Heden would take this as far as it would go, and nothing in twenty years of campaigning had yet stopped him. Heden had sworn to kill the bishop. An oath to himself, and he was about to fulfill his oath, or die trying.
Gwiddon tried to explain, knowing even as he said it, it didn’t matter.
“He will deploy his agents. And they will hire men and those men will hire men and soon every hand in the city will be turned against you. And none of them will even know who they’re working for.”
“He can try,” Heden said. “Maybe he’ll order you to kill me.”
This sparked some realization in Gwiddon.
“Heden you’ve got to report to him.”
“I’m leaving now Gwiddon. I don’t know what’s going to happen to me, but you get to live with yourself. Punishment enough.”
“Heden in Llewellyn’s name will you listen to me? You can’t confront him. You have to report to the bishop, tell him what happened in the wode. If you don’t, he’ll begin to suspect you’re against him. He needs to think his plan is working. By Cyrvis’ thorny prick, you were a campaigner for twenty years, think. How would you take down a man like the bishop? How would you do it if you weren’t blinded by rage?!”
This seemed to have some effect.
“You don’t see it, do you? Heden I don’t know what happened up there, but you’ve got to start thinking. What does it mean? He’s been leading the church since before you were born.”
Heden turned slowly to look at his friend, afraid of where this was going.
“And he does not. Follow. Cavall.”
“He…,” Heden couldn’t hold the idea in his head. It was too big. “He’s chosen by Cavall.”
“No! That’s just it! Everyone says that, but he’s chosen by the rectors in camerata. In secret! He’s elected by the secret rectors. That’s why I was….” He stopped.
Heden saw it. “That’s why you were put into the church,” he said. “That’s why the king sent his spy to the church. You were there to find out how the bishop was chosen.”
Gwiddon stepped back.
“And you did.” A calm washed over Heden. It frightened Gwiddon. “You’re a good spy, Gwidd. You always were.”
The two men stood there, looking at each other as friends for the last time. Both of them knew it.
“What are you going to do?” Gwiddon asked.
“I’ll report in,” Heden said, but it was no concession. “You’re right. I can’t just…kill the bishop. Not right now at least, and not alone. I’ll need help.”
“I can….”
“Not you,” he said. “Not anymore. From now on if the king wants me he can send Cathe or Alaric,” the man everyone thought was the king’s spymaster. “Because as of right now I don’t talk to you. If I ever see you again, if you ever come to the inn….” Heden left it at that.
Gwiddon nodded. He knew it would end like this.
“The polder,” Heden demanded. “Who is he?”
“I’m not sure,” Gwiddon tried to push h
is blood-matted hair out of his face. “It could be Aimsley Pinwhistle.”
Heden frowned, shook his head. He didn’t know this name.
“In rough terms he’s your opposite number inside the Hearth. He’s the Brick’s fixer,” Gwiddon said.
“The Brick. The Cold Hearth. I’ll deal with him first.”
He turned and walked to the door.
“Heden," Gwiddon pleaded. "What happened up there? What happened to the Green Order? What happened to you?”
Heden’s mouth was open as though paused in the middle of a word, his eyes looked at something only he could see. Eventually, he blinked and came back to reality. He reached out and grabbed the door latch and opened it. Noise and light and air filled with the smell of the city flooded in. Heden was framed in bright sunlight. He was just a silhouette to Gwiddon.
Heden walked out the door, leaving Gwiddon broken and alone.
Chapter Twenty-five
Calvus peered over his ink formulation at the spectacle before him.
"You look like shit,” the alchemist said.
"Enh." Aimsley Pinwhistle lurched off the door frame separating the alchemical laboratory from the rest of the apothecary.
Calvus stoppered the open vials before him, and stood up. The fixer obviously needed help.
“You can’t come here, Fixer. I can’t help you. I shouldn’t even know this has been done to you, you’re putting the whole operation in danger.”
Aimsley slumped in a chair. Half his face looked like it had been melted and repaired, It had the tell-tale sign of pinkness, newness. Some of his hair was missing, giving him a more roguish, less youthful look than the alchemist was used to.
“I need you to fix this,” he said, extending his right arm. It was covered in glittering welts. His leather armor was torn apart all along his right side, Calvus assumed the red welts extended across his chest as well.
“I can’t,” Calvus said simply. “You can’t even be here, you know that. You’ve got your own network, that’s why you’ve got your own…,” he stopped. “Get out,” he said flatly.
Aimsley’s breath was ragged.
“I saw Iordoros,” Aimsley grunted. “He fixed me up best he could. I can see out of my left eye again," he said with a sneer. "But this," he continued, nodding at his arm. "This is, ahh..."
Thief: A Fantasy Hardboiled (Ratcatchers Book 2) Page 12