Deryni Checkmate

by Katherine Kurtz

Bronwyn lowered her eyes selfconsciously, then ran to Jared and flung her arms around him in an enthusiastic hug.

  "Lord Jared, you are the most wonderful man in the whole world! Next to Kevin, of course."

  "Oh, of course," Jared replied, kissing her forehead and then holding her carefully away from him to avoid crushing the veil. "I must say, my dear, you make a lovely McLain. This tiara only graces the heads of the Eleven Kingdoms' comeliest ladies, you know." He joined Margaret and kissed her hand affectionately, and Margaret blushed.

  Jared had been holding court for most of the day. Like most land magnates of his stature, much of his

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  time was not his own and must be spent attending to the official duties of his overlordship. He had come directly from a session of the ducal court this afternoon, and he still wore his ducal coronet and a brown velvet robe with Mclain tartan sweeping from the shoulder. An enameled silver brooch with the McLain lion dormant secured the plaid on the left, and a heavy silver chain of office with links the size of a man's hand was draped around his broad shoulders. His blue eyes were mild and relaxed in the lined face and he brushed aside a stray lock of greying hair as he gestured toward the other man who had remained standing in the doorway.

  "Rimmell, come in here. I want you to meet my future daughter-in-law."

  Rimmell bowed aad crossed toward his master.

  The most extraordinary single feature about Rimmell at first glance was his snow-white hair. Rimmel was not an old man—he was but twenty-eight—nor was he an albino. He had, in fact, had perfectly ordinary brown hair until the age of ten. Then, one warm summer night, it had suddenly and inexplicably turned white while he slept.

  His mother had always blamed it on the "Deryni witch" who was permitted to live on the outskirts of the village. And the village priest had vowed the boy was possessed, and had tried to exorcise the evil spirits. But whatever the reason, and despite all they did to try to change it, Rimmell's hair had remained white. And it was only this, coupled with eyes of a startlingly brilliant blue, which rescued him from the anonymity of very ordinary features and a slightly stooped posture.

  He wore a grey tunic and high boots, a grey velvet cap with Jared's sleeping lion badge sewn to the front, and carrie4 a scuffed grey leather equipment poach slung across his chest on a long leather strap. Several long rolls of parchment were tucked under his arm,

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  and he clutcKed them nervously as he reached Jared's side and bowed again.

  "Your Grace," he murmured, removing his cap and keeping his eyes lowered. "My ladies."

  Jared glanced conspiratorily at his wife and smiled. "Bronwyn, this is my architect, Rimmell. He's drawn up a few sketches I'd like your opinion on." He gestured toward a table near the fire. "Rimmell, lefs spread them out over there."

  As Rimmell crossed to the table and began unrolling his parchments, Bronwyn took off tiara and veil and handed them to a serving maid, then walked curiously to the table. Jared and Rimmell were opening out a number of parchment documents which appeared to be plans of some sort, and Bronwyn's brow wrinkled in puzzlement as she leaned closer to inspect them.

  "Well, what do you think?"

  "What are they?"

  Jared grinned and straightened, folded his arms across his chest in anticipation. "They're plans for your new winter palace in Kierney, my dear. Construction has already begun. You and Kevin should be able to hold Christmas Court there next year!"

  "A winter palace?" Bronwyn gasped. "For us? Oh, Lord Jared, thank you!"

  "Consider it the only proper wedding present we could think of for the future duke and duchess of Cassan," Jared replied. He put an affectionate arm around his wife and smiled down at her. "Margaret and I wanted you to have somewhere for the grandchildren to play, something to remember us by when we're gone."

  "Youl" Bronwyn teased, hugging them both. "As if we needed an old palace to remember you by! Come. Show me the plans. I want to know about every last cubbyhole and stairway."

  Jared chuckled and, bent down beside her, began pointing out the features of the structure. And as he

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  proceeded to regale his audience with tales of the palace's splendor, Rimmell withdrew a few paces and tried to study Bronwyn unobtrusively.

  He did not approve of the coming marriage of his master's heir with this Deryni woman. He had never approved, from the first time he set eyes on her seven months ago. In those seven months he had never spoken to Bronwyn. Indeed, he had only seen her a handful of times. But those were enough.

  They were enough to make him realize the gap between them— she a lord's daughter and heiress of many lands; he a commoner, an architect, of no family at all. And they were enough for him to realize that he was falling hopelessly, helplessly in love with this exquisite Deryni woman.

  He told himself that lie disapproved of the coming match for other, more aesthetic reasons than the true ones. He told himself he disapproved because Bronwyn was half-Deryni, and therefore had no business marrying the young Earl Kevin, that she was not good enough for one so high. But whatever his objections, they always came back to the one inescapable, irreconcilable fact: he was in love with Bronwyn, Deryni or no. And he must have her or die.

  He had no quarrel with Kevin. Kevin was his future master, and Rimmell owed him the same allegiance as he did his father. But neither could he allow the earl to marry Bronwyn. Why, even the thought was beginning to make him hate the sound of the young lord's voice.

  His pondering was interrupted by a voice outside the balcony window— the voice of the hated earl himself.

  "Bron?" tKe voice called. "Bronwyn, come here. I want to show you something.

  At his call, Bronwyn hurried through the balcony doors and peered over the edge of the railing. From his spot near the table, Rimmell could just see the tips

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  of pennants on lances above the balcony, and the shadowy shapes of riders on horseback through the narrow slits in the balcony railing. Lord Kevin had returned with his men.

  "Oh!" Bronwyn called out, her face bright with excitement. "Jared, Margaret, come and see what he's got! Oh, Kevin, she's the most beautiful palfrey I've ever seen!"

  "Come down and try her," Kevin shouted. "I bought her for you."

  "For me?" Bronwyn squealed, clapping her hands like an excited child. She glanced back at Jared and Margaret, then turned back to blow Kevin a kiss.

  "We're coming, Kevin," she called gathering her skirts around her as she flew across the room to join the McLains. "Don't go away!"

  As the three hurried from the room, Rimmell stared after Bronwyn hungrily for a moment, then moved slowly across to the balcony. There in the courtyard below, Kevin, in full skirmish attire, was seated on a great roan destrier with McLain tartan on the saddle. A page had taken his lance and helmet, and he had pushed back his camail so that his brown hair was rumpled and tousled. In his right hand he held the lead rein of a cream-colored palfrey, caparisoned with green velvet hangings and a white leather sidesaddle. As Bronwyn appeared at the head of the stairs, he tossed the lead to another page and moved his destrier to the steps, then reached up and lifted Bronwyn to the saddle in front of him.

  "There, wench! What do you think of that?" he laughed, crushing her against his mailed chest and kissing her heartily. "Is that or is that not a horse fit for a queen?"

  Bronwyn giggled and snuggled closer in the protective circle of his arm, and Kevin guided his mount back toward the palfrey. As Bronwyn reached out to

  go Deryni Checkmate

  touch her new prize, Rimmell turned away in disgust and stalked back to the table.

  He didn't know how he was going to do it, but he must stop this wedding from taking place. Bronwyn was his. She must be his. If only he could find the right moment, he was sure he could convince her of

  .

  that, could make her love hi
m. It did not occur to him that he had just stepped across the border from fantasy into madness.

  He rolled up his plans and scanned the room carefully, noting that all the ladies-in-waiting and servants had moved to the balcony to watch the spectacle in the courtyard below. Unless he was gravely mistaken, some of the women watched with more than a little jealousy. Could he, perhaps, play on that jealousy in some way? Perhaps one of the ladies could tell of a way to win a woman's love. At any rate, it bore closer watching. Since he truly meant to stop the marriage and take Bronwyn for himself, he must not miss a single possibility. Bronwyn must be his!

  CHAPTER SIX

  Vhey also that see after my life lay snares for me.

  Psalms 38:12

  "ANOTHER ROUND!" Deny said thickly, slapping a silver coin down on the bar and gesturing magnanimously around him. "Drinks for all o' these fine gentlemen! When ol* John Ban'r gets drunk, all his friends get drunk tool"

  There was a roar of approval as a half-dozen rough-looking men in hunters' and sailors* garb lurched back to the bar around Deny, and the taverner snatched up a huge oak pitcher and began refilling the brown earthen mugs with fragrant ale.

  "Thash a good boy, Johnny-lad!" one called, spitting amiably toward berry's feet as he held out his mug.

  "Fill 'er up!" another hollered.

  It was early yet. Darkness had just fallen. But already the Jack Dog Tavern in Fathane was almost filled to capacity, its patrons as loud and boisterous a mob as any in the Eleven Kingdoms. Over against one wall, a sailor in th'e worn jerkin of a top rigger was leading an old sea chanty to the accompaniment of a reed pipe, an out-of-tune lute, and two heavy trestle tables which had become the percussion section. Around the group, which was growing larger and noisier by the minute, more serious drinkers were

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  having to raise their voices more and more to compete with the singing. But they knew better than to express displeasure at the noise and risk a brawl with the crusty sailors.

  Fathane, just at the mouth of the river isthmus, was predominantly a sailing town. Ships from Torenth and Corwyn across the river traded there regularly, and it was also a point of departure for hunters and trappers going farther up river to the great Veldur forests. The combination of interests made Fathane a very lively town.

  Deny took a long pull from his fresh mug and turned unsteadily toward the man on his right, apparently listening to his story.

  "An' so this man says, *Wa'd'ye mean, Lord Var-ne/s wine shipment? Thash mine, an' I paid fer it,* an' the Devil take Lord Varney!'"

  There was a roar of laughter at that, for the storyteller was evidently one of the most respected spinners of yarns in the village. But Deny had to fight hard to restrain a yawn.

  He had gained a great deal of information in the past three hours of drinking and storytelling, not the least of which was the fact that Torenthi royalist troops were gathering somewhere north of here near a place called Medras. The man who'd told him of it hadn't known just what their purpose was—he was not the brightest of informants, and he'd been half-drunk by the time Deny got to him—but he had said there were as many as five thousand men being mustered there. And evidently the information was supposed to be secret, for the man had suddenly clammed up when a Torenthi soldier poked his head in the door while making his rounds.

  Deny had pretended not to be interested, and had quickly changed the subject. But he had carefully filed the information away with the rest of the things he'd learned that afternoon. The mission thus far had been

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  a highly fruitful one. A decided pattern was beginning to form.

  He looked into the depths of his ale mug, affecting that morose brooding attitude so often exhibited by men who are very drunk, and considered his next move.

  It was almost totally dark now, and he'd been drinking all afternoon. He wasn't drunk—it took more than ale to do that—but in spite of a capacity for spirits which Morgan assured him bordered on the prodigious, he was beginning to feel the effects. It was time he got back to the room he'd taken at the Crooked Dragon. He didn't want to miss his rendezr vous with Morgan.

  "An' so I says to the lass, 'Darlin', whafs yw price?', an' she says, 'More 'n you've got, sailor. You couldn't even keep me in petticoats!'"

  Deny took one last swig of the cold ale, then pushed himself back from the bar and straightened his leather jerkin with an exaggerated motion. As he placed another small coin on the bar, a man on his left lurched and nearly poured his ale down Derry's boot, but Derry managed to sidestep and steady the man without looking too sober.

  "Careful, mate," Deny slurred, helping the man back to the bar and guiding his mug to the surface. "Here, you finish mine. I gotta get shome shleep." He poured the remnants of his drink into the man's mug, purposely slopping half of it over the side, then patted the man reassuringly on the shoulder.

  "Now, you drink up, m'friend," he said, pushing himself away from the bar again. "An' J wish you a pkashant—g'night!"

  "Aw, yer not leavin' yet, are ye, oT buddy? Isfc early."

  "Come on, Johnny-lad. One more fer th' road?"

  "No," Deny shook his head, drawing himself to

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  exaggerated attention. "I am too drunk. I ha' had enough, an' thash that."

  He attempted a precise pivot, stumbled against another man behind him, then managed to weave his way to the door without major mishap. He kept an eye out as he staggered through the door, hoping he wasn't going to be followed. But no one except his former drinking partners even seemed to notice he was gone, and they were fast forgetting he'd ever been there.

  As the noise of the raucous Jack Dog Tavern faded into the distance, Derry's hearing gradually began to return to normal. He tried not to collide with too many pedestrians as he lurched along the street—at least none bigger than himself—but when he reached a darkened alley he ducked into the shadows and peered back the way he had come. He had just about decided it was safe to drop his drunk routine when he heard a footstep in the alley behind him.

  "Who'shat?" he grunted, dropping into character again as he turned, and hoping it wasn't necessary. "Who'sh there?"

  "Hey, fella, are you all right?" said the man approaching him, his voice sounding strangely smooth and cultured in the filthy alley.

  Damn! thought Deny as he recognized the man. He'd seen the fellow in the tavern earlier this afternoon, drinking rather quietly with another man in the corner. Why had the man followed him? And where was his drinking partner?

  "I rememer you," Deny said, slurring his words and pointing at the man rather shakily as he tried to decide how he was going to handle this. "You were inna tavern, weren't ya? Whash matter? Can't pay yer bar bill?"

  "My friend noticed you were awfully shaky when you left," the man replied, stopping about four feet

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  from Deny and studying him carefully. "We just wanted to make sure you were all right."

  "Yer frien'?" Derry questioned, trying to look around without seeming too coherent. "Whysh yer frien' so worried 'bout me?" he asked, craning His neck suspiciously as he saw the other man approaching from the street side. "Wha* ish thish anyway?"

  "Don't be alarmed, my friend," the first man said, moving closer to Derry and taking his arm. "We're not going to hurt you."

  "Now, lishen," Derry began, protesting more loudly as the man started to lead him further into the dark alley. "If it's money ya want, fergit it. I spent my lash copper back a' th* tavern."

  "We don't want your money," said the second man, grabbing Derry's other arm and helping his companion half carry Deny along the alley.

  Mumbling and whining under his breath, Derry continued to play his drunk role to the hilt, stumbling and falling with every other step to slow them down while he tried to form a plan. The men were obviously up to no good. But whether they suspected him for what he really was or mer
ely wanted to roll him for his money was immaterial right now. What was important was that they believed him to be drunk. He could tell by the way they held his arms that they didn't think him any serious threat. Maybe there was still a way to salvage the operation after all.

  "This is about far enough," said the first man, when they had dragged him, stumbling and staggering, some thirty or forty feet into the alley. "Lyle?"

  The second one nodded, taking something small and shiny foom his tunic. "This won't take a minute, ray friend."

  It was too small to be a weapon. As Derry watched the man fiddling with it, he realized it was a vial of some murky orangish liquid. He peered curiously as

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  the man tried to worry the stopper out with his fingers, again revising his estimation of the situation.

  They were going to drag him—whether to kill or to interrogate, he didn't know, but he didn't particularly care to find out. The first man was holding both his arms, but his grip was only firm enough to support him. Apparently they still believed him to be just a drunk. That would be their fatal mistake.

  "What ish that?" Deny murmured amiably as the man pulled out the stopper. "Ish a pretty pink."

  'Tes, my friend," said the man, bringing the vial toward Derry's face. "This will just help to clear your head. Drink it down, now." It was the moment for action.

  In a sudden movement, Derry wrenched his arm away from the man behind him and dashed the liquid over his shoulder into the man's face. At the same time he dropped slightly and kicked the second man in the groin, then rolled with the force of the kick and came up on his feet, sword half-drawn.

  Before he could clear the scabbard, the first man was already leaping for his arm, wrenching the blade out of his grasp. And as he fought for control of the weapon, the second man launched himself into the fray and landed on his partner's back, thinking it was Derry in the dim light. The first man went limp and the sword fell from his hands; the second jumped back cursing, then lunged at Deny again.

  Now the odds were more to Derry's liking, though it still would not be easy. While Derry knew he was most decidedly not drunk, neither was he entirely sober. His reflexes were slowed down, and the man before him was obviously an expert with a dagger. Derry whipped his own dagger from his boot top and sparred with the man briefly, each feinting several times. Then they closed.