Flametouched

by Brian K. Fuller

  They embraced, and Filippa’s wan smile pushed Arianne’s own troubles out of her mind for a moment. In all the mental scrapping for her own life and reputation, she had neglected to think of what her elderly friend faced—a nation at war and a dark, divisive conspiracy.

  Filippa sat down hard on the couch. “Well, my dear Arianne, we are in the thick of a mess now. I am glad you arrived safely, though I wish you would have followed Davon’s example and perhaps faked your own death. If you aren’t careful, there won’t be any fakery to it.”

  Arianne didn’t want to face that yet. She would save those ruminations for what promised to be a long, sleepless night. “Where is Lord Carver, Filippa?”

  The Queen sighed. “The honest truth is that I do not know. I sent him on a mission to search out the person through whom all these illicit payments were funneled. This he did along with some other men I keep in my personal dungeon. The scoundrel they captured is Justus Paige, and after apprehending him, Davon and his companions were hunted and fled into the Royal Wood.

  “Then it gets a little strange, I am afraid. The Aua’Catan captured them. One of my men and Justus Paige they released. The two barely made it to Bellshire in one piece. Davon, however, the Aua’Catan retained in their custody and dragged off to the Flame knows where.”

  Arianne knew little of the North People save that they were barbaric and that the Creetisians killed them on sight. “What would they want with him?”

  “To hear my man tell it, they say they were fascinated by the scars on his chest. They are a superstitious lot. Do you know of these scars?”

  “I saw them on his chest when he was in the infirmary,” Arianne said. “From a sabercat, I understand.”

  The Queen shook her head. “Well, I am quite cross that they carried him off. I really need that man around just now.”

  “As do I.”

  A smile finally crept to Filippa’s lips, and she relaxed, leaning back into the couch. “And how did you find Frostbourne?”

  “There is a lot to tell, Filippa,” Arianne said, wringing her hands, “and none of it good. But I have a matter of some delicacy to bring to you immediately, if you’ll excuse me a moment.” Arianne reached into her dress and pulled out the letter she had confiscated from the study. “I have this letter from Davon’s father where he disinherits his son, claiming that he is a bastard and has no right to Frostbourne. It is extraordinary. I almost burned it, but I wanted you to see it first. Do you know about any of this?”

  Filippa rose slowly, brows knitted, the Arrow Asp walking stick taking most of her weight. “I do.”

  “Is it true?”

  The old Queen shuffled forward. “Let me see the letter, dear.”

  Arianne handed it over and the Queen read it, walking in a slow circuit around the room. “Insufferable man, that Asper Carver,” she finally said.

  Then she tossed the document into the fire.

  Arianne’s eyebrows shot up. “So it is a lie, then.”

  Filippa turned and shook her head. The fire brightened briefly as the paper ignited, the harsh light deepening the wrinkles on the Queen’s aged face. “No, it isn’t. Davon is not the son of Asper Carver.”

  “Does anyone know who his real father is?”

  The Queen nodded slowly. “Yes. At least I do. I believe I am the only one besides Davon’s mother that knew for sure. Remember when we talked some months ago about how when Davon’s parents died I kept a close eye on Frostbourne? You may have thought I did so out of concern for the young Davon, but it was quite the opposite. I did so because I wanted him to be miserable, to fail and bring ruin on the Carver name and his estate.”

  Arianne straightened. “What? Why?”

  “Because I was an angry, hurt woman, Arianne.”

  A silent horror started to build within her, a realization of what the Queen was implying. It simply couldn’t be true.

  Arianne’s mouth fished for words before some finally came out. “But you’re not suggesting that he is the son of the late King Ostris?”

  The Queen’s eyes were lost in a memory. “It is so, Arianne.”

  “But you always said that your marriage was a happy one, that you loved each other.”

  Filippa grunted. “Also true, but it was not without its mistakes and wretchedness, too. Davon’s mother was a beauty, tall and slender, and as fair as Emile Ironhorn. Asper Carver was also of fair coloring. Imagine the marital distress when Davon was born with his tan skin and dark hair, the same coloring as his father, often called King Ostris the Brown.”

  “But how did you know?” Arianne asked.

  Filippa meandered back to the couch and took her seat. “Ostris confessed it to me the day after the affair. He was miserable about it and had hoped that nothing would come of it. We were both older then. I was already shriveling while he was as powerful and virile as ever he was. Anyway, when news broke that she was with child, we watched carefully. When the child was darkly complexioned, we knew the truth. To her credit, Davon’s mother never confessed, but Asper Carver knew the child was not his. And no one should ever know, Arianne. I wonder, has he read this letter?”

  “I cannot say.” Arianne explained the alarming circumstance of its discovery, and the room with Asper Carver’s corpse.

  The Queen’s face blanched. “This is indeed a setback! If word ever got out, he would never be thought sane again!”

  “It won’t. Frostbourne manor is no more.”

  “Say again?” the Queen asked, eyes sharp.

  “Emile Ironhorn ‘accidentally’ let her bedding wander into the fire just as we made to leave. The whole place is ashes.”

  Color returned to Filippa’s face, her frown threatening to break the confines of her face. For the moment, the monarch appeared too angry to speak. She rose again, shuffling off toward the window. Out in the palace gardens, the turbulent wind thrashed the trees and bushes under Filippa’s sour gaze.

  Arianne sat back and considered. Davon was the son of a King! His illegitimacy would never let him enjoy the privilege of it, however, and Arianne understood why the information could never come to light. But one question remained.

  “Filippa, if you hated Davon for what he represented, how did you come to admire him?”

  “It was a great lesson,” the Queen said, face still etched with anger. She sighed and returned to her couch, laying the walking stick on her lap. “I watched for failure and saw nothing but his father—his real father—in him. His tenacity. His courage. His kindness. When Davon Carver first came to court at his majority, my heart nearly broke. King Ostris was dead then. Davon is a fair likeness of him, though his mother’s slight frame subtracted from Ostris’s mighty one somewhat. I have loved him as my own son since, though from afar. He has needed no favor or protection from me during all these years. I only wish him happiness.”

  Arianne smiled. Her first of the day. “As do I.”

  “Good. Then stay alive, dear friend. Would you marry someone like Davon Carver?”

  “If he would ask.”

  “Good,” the Queen replied, leaning back into the cushions of the couch. “It is my fondest hope that he comes to his senses and drops the knee—whenever the Aua’Catan are done with him. He might be stubborn about it because of his loss of rank, but that punishment cannot last much longer—he is needed.”

  Chapter 38

  Melchor Raines pushed the last silver button of his coat through its hole, completing his prison guard disguise. He’d watched the sheriff’s night guard for four days to find just the right man with just the right physical build to match his. Kail Mayes was his name, and he went on duty in twenty minutes at the Black Lock Prison in the East Wall District. That is, he would have gone on duty in twenty minutes if Melchor hadn’t strangled him in his bed.

  Melchor took stock of his disguise. The resemblance was just about perfect. To the corpse’s left a gutted goose-down pillow sprawled across the sheets, Melchor having pushed its stuffing up his shirt to serve as
Kail’s small but noticeable gut. Fortunately, Melchor had enough growth of facial hair to mimic Mr. Mayes’s unimpressive mustache. As they were both men of strong features, in the dark, bleary hours of the night, Melchor was quite sure he could pass for the man on casual observation.

  There were only two tasks for him to complete for Creetis before the impending war started, and once those were seen to fruition, he would claim his reward for his service. Agor Ghest had promised that once Bellshire was under Creetisian control, that Melchor could stretch forth his hand and pluck one of the ripe estates for his retirement. While retirement sounded dreadfully dull, the work of keeping Bellshire under control would certainly afford him many more opportunities to clench his hands around an unsuspecting throat.

  And it was all falling into place nicely. One of the Queen’s closest friends was under suspicion of treachery. The prominent Longfords, the family to whom everyone looked for leadership, sank in increasing disgrace. Any day now the power hungry northern lords would find that the caches of weapons and supplies they had so underhandedly paid for and hidden were nowhere to be found. And now that Justus Paige had arrived in the Sheriff’s office, more names would be dragged through the mire of scandal and intrigue.

  The long fermenting plan really couldn’t have gone much better. While the revelations contained in the ledgers from Hightower had come a bit too soon, the ensuing chaos was quite satisfying. Day by day, Bellshire frayed more and more. Still, the people did not think that Creetis posed much of a threat. Melchor couldn’t help but grin. Which northern noble would do the honorable thing and admit that their carefully hoarded weapons were likely in the hands of their enemies?

  He checked Mr. Mayes’s tarnished watch. Time to go. After another check of his disguise, Melchor blew out the lantern, darkness hiding the dead man’s face, which stared up at the ceiling from his bed. Melchor stepped outside the modest apartment and into a beautiful summer night. Bellshire really was a fine city. Creete, while an efficient and functional place, possessed little variety or character, consisting of a mass of long rectangular buildings with straight lines on perfectly straight streets on a perfectly regular grid. No slums, no rich quarter, no mystery, no danger.

  Bellshire, however, teemed with all manner of people, from the most dissolute of drunks to the most sober of abstainers. One could become anyone in Bellshire and blend in somewhere. After he had killed Uticus Longford in pretended vengeance for Horace Clout, Queen Filippa had him escorted from Bellshire. Melchor had simply waited for the cloak of night and sneaked back into the city. A quick throttling of a drunkard in an alley provided him with new clothes and no questions.

  The guard he had just killed lived in the Bristol Market District, a definite upgrade from the hovel Melchor had inhabited as a drunk in the Crooks. It was convenient to East Gate and the Black Lock Prison where the guard whose persona he had assumed had employment standing sentry at the rear entrance of the building. It was the prison where the two clerks from Hightower were sequestered awaiting the trial of Lady Hightower. Their ham-fisted attempt to recover the ledgers had clued Baron Carver into the ledgers’ importance, and because of the Baron, the conspirators had to accelerate their plans.

  But the two clerks had served their purpose. Their testimonies were recorded, but since the Queen was Lady Hightower’s special friend, Melchor suspected she would find a way to save her. Tonight he would ensure that the trial would end with Lady Hightower drowning, finishing the task Horace Clout had originally set him to: find the Queen’s successor and kill him—or her. Having the Lord High Sheriff’s executioner do the killing for him would be a masterstroke.

  Queen Filippa’s choice of her widowed friend as successor was an odd one, however. Ambassador Clout and Melchor himself had prognosticated that Duke Longford or Lord Ember would be tapped to rule the nation. Lady Hightower was certainly attractive, independent, and well liked, but strong enough to take over Bittermarch? The only strange part of the document he uncovered in the vaults of the Flame Cathedral was that if she ever married, the throne would pass to her husband. What sane woman would give up her power and influence for a marriage? Bittermarchians often made little sense, however.

  He continued his walk down the lane, relaxing his limbs and his gait to appear at ease in another man’s clothing. The moral pretensions of the more affluent East Gate denizens provided empty streets at the late hours of the night—decent people didn’t roam around in the dark. One might encounter a drunk merchant or a mistress sneaking home, but tonight his honed senses found no noise or movement to bring him alarm.

  At precisely two minutes to midnight, he arrived at the prison wall, an eight-foot affair crowned with black iron spikes pointing to the sky. The building, windows mostly dark, sat like a mountain behind the wall, a hulking three-story edifice made entirely from brick. Narrow windows marked the cells on the top two floors, and wider windows marked the offices on the bottom. Lamps burned at the front of the entrance and the lesser-used back door.

  Melchor avoided the front. A brace of guards manned the guardhouse, and while Melchor was confident in his disguise, he certainly couldn’t pass for Mr. Mayes if trapped in a conversation. The wooden back gate at the rear of the prison was only opened to allow in food and supplies for the prisoners and was as wide as two wagons. It reached as high as the walls to either side and was painted black, the spikes on top poking skyward.

  The designers probably thought the menacing hardware a deterrent to anyone thinking of climbing over. What it really provided was something for someone athletic to grab onto after a jump. Melchor put his eye to a crack in the gate, finding the guard Mr. Mayes was to relieve patrolling the back yard lethargically, yawning into the night.

  As the guard tracked south, Melchor chose a section of the wall next to the gate and made his jump with the assistance of a mortar crack. Each of his hands clutched a spike until the one in his right hand pulled away from the mortar used to secure it. Bits of dust and debris showered his face and stuck in his eyes. Clinging by one hand he tossed it over the wall into the soft grass of the yard rather than let it drop noisily to the cobblestones at his feet.

  Blinking to clear his eyes, he grabbed the next spike over and pulled himself up, the vacated spike providing a convenient platform to lift himself up onto and then jump from. He was in.

  A quick swat to his hair and uniform cleared the chunks of mortar and dust. He hurried to his post before the other guard could circle back around on his patrol route. Melchor stood diligently at attention just outside the door as if he had just arrived for his shift. When the guard did return, Melchor moved to keep the lantern light in the other man’s eyes.

  The guard stopped and yawned. “About time,” he said, throwing a sleepy look at his replacement and unclipping a key ring from his belt. “The family’s all asleep in there. See you tomorrow.”

  He tossed the keys up and Melchor caught them. He knew that Mr. Mayes had a deep voice, so Melchor bid the retiring guard, “Good evening” in his best Bittermarchian accent. The guard waved and left, making his way toward the front gate.

  Melchor waited for him to clear the yard, leaning with his upper back against the prison wall like Mr. Mayes would do. He had to hurry before some bored guard discovered him and decided to strike up a conversation. So once the exiting guard was out of sight around the corner, Melchor turned to the door, inserted the worn iron key into the lock, and let himself in.

  The interior of the prison reminded him of buildings in Creetis. Long hallways, regular doors, ascetic appointments. Nothing was frivolous or out of place, and everything was clean, especially for a prison. The white plaster walls reflected a weak moonlight coming in through the larger windows of the lower level.

  Melchor turned left, unlocking a gate to the stairwell that led up to the second level where a terrified Mr. Mayes had told him the steward and clerk were sequestered. Rooms twenty-four and twenty-five. The gate door swung open without even the hint of a squeal; the High
Sheriff ran a tight operation.

  Once inside, Melchor shut the gate but didn’t lock it; he would need to get out quickly. Taking the steps two at a time he arrived on the second floor, finding a single lantern burning in the middle of the long corridor, cell doors on the left and right. Rooms twenty-four and twenty-five waited near the stairwell. Melchor jogged down the wooden floor, boards creaking at his passing, and retrieved the lantern from its hook.

  Room twenty-four was first. Melchor unlocked it and pushed the handle, holding the lantern in front of him. The cell doors had a voice, and the creaking woke the tenant. The steward of Hightower, a Mr. Barles, sat up in his bed and shielded his eyes with his hand.

  “What’s the meaning of this?” he said, voice clogged with sleep.

  Melchor pulled one of his pistols from his belt and shot him clean through the heart. The report echoed through the building, muffled yells of surprise erupting down the hall. The steward collapsed onto his mattress without a groan.

  Now that the alarm was raised, Melchor knew speed was essential. He turned to room twenty-five across the hall and unlocked it, kicking open the door violently. The head clerk, Mr. Cranton, was on his feet, sock cap dangling in his face. Melchor pulled his second pistol and aimed it at the man’s chest, though his victim was too blinded to see it.

  “Lady Hightower sends her greetings, traitor,” Melchor growled. He aimed the pistol high and to the right of the man’s heart. This clerk would need to testify in court that Lady Hightower had, at last, sent an assassin to finish him off. He took the shot, red blooming on the long night robes of his target. The clerk screamed in agony and collapsed on his bed.

  Tossing both pistols aside, Melchor jumped down the stairs three at a time. Footsteps raced down the hallway to his left as he opened the stairwell gate. Three prison officers ran toward him, a single lantern casting wild shadows against the wall.

  “A gun’s been fired on the second floor!” Melchor yelled, hoping the trio would only see the uniform. “I’ll fetch the Warden.”