by Jon Sprunk
Hagan pulled out his pipe and a pouch. “So, your father was a soldier.”
Caim plucked at the whiskers on his chin. Why keep lying? Who was he trying to protect? The air in the hut felt stuffy. He wished his host would prop open one of the flaps over the windows.
“I’m sorry, Hagan. I didn’t tell you the truth before. My father …” He took a breath, unable to believe what he was about to do. “My father was Baron Du’Vartha.”
If the old man was shocked, he didn’t show it. He combed his fingers through his beard and nodded as if he dined with nobility all the time. His daughter glanced up for a moment, and then dropped her gaze again.
“Liana, clear this off, won’t you?”
With a sharp glance at her father, the girl threw on a knitted shawl and carried the dirty tableware outside.
Hagan lit his pipe from a candle and took short puffs. Looking at him, secure in his home, surrounded by a growing cloud of smoke, Caim saw a different side to his host. There was an air of gravity about him, like a magistrate at his tall bench.
“It’s said none survived the attack on Du’Vartha’s manor. Not even the animals in their pens, all dead by fire or sword.”
Caim put both hands on the table, palms down. A rivulet of sweat ran down his spine. “I survived. And so did my mother.”
The old man leaned forward, and the top of his shirt gaped open to reveal a bronze torc around his neck. “I never heard that, and I know just about everything that happens in these parts.”
“What do you know about what happened?”
Hagan took another pull at his pipe. “Not much more than the tale I spun for you before. The baron made no secret that his wife came from the north, but she didn’t look like any Northman bride. Dark features, night-black hair. Eyes deeper than the sea. Some said she was a witch.”
Caim thought back to the woman at the prison gate.
Hagan coughed into his fist. “When the empire took the clans over the mountains to make war in the north, men came back with tales of all manner of unnatural things they’d seen. And now with the witch in Liovard—”
The door of the hut slammed open. Caim spun out of the chair, both knives leaping into his hands. Two cloaked men stood in the doorway. The first was tall with big shoulders and a double-bladed axe held in one hairy hand. No logger’s tool, the axe was made for hewing down men. The smaller man behind him clutched a sword. Both men were hooded, revealing little except that the bigger man sported a dark beard down his chest while his comrade was smooth-shaven.
Caim edged toward the wall where his bundles sat. Then he recognized the short sword in the smaller man’s grip by its poor-quality steel and flimsy guard. He had seen it before. At the roadhouse. The thin-shouldered youth.
The men stumbled sideways as Liana jostled them from behind. She gave them both hard looks as she pushed between them with an armful of plates. The big man recovered first and pointed his axe at Caim.
“We’re here for you, outlander.”
Hagan stood up. “What is the meaning of this? This man is my guest.”
“Don’t get involved, Father.” The smaller man pushed back his hood to reveal a slender face topped by the same mop of pitch-black hair Caim had seen at the hostel.
Hagan looked over. “This is my son. Keegan.”
Caim lowered his knives. “I saw him at the roadhouse, though he didn’t stick around to see how it all ended.”
Up close, Hagan’s son was a solid young man in his early twenties. His hands were small, with long fingers, more delicate than Caim would have guessed on a country lad.
“Never mind me,” Keegan said. “I saw what happened at Orso’s and told Ramon. He thought we should follow the stranger.”
“What were you doing there?” Hagan asked. “I told you I didn’t want you going there anymore.”
“Ask him how he took down five of the duke’s soldiers, Father,” Keegan said. “Not to mention Lord Arion his self.”
A sinking feeling hit Caim in the stomach. The duke’s son? Oh, gods. Kit, what kind of shit-storm did you let me walk into?
Hagan pounded his fist on the table. “Keegan, I will not—!”
Keegan pointed his sword at Caim. “Father, if you were more concerned about your people, and less about the honor of your house, you’d wonder the same thing.”
Liana came over holding a damp rag. “You’re always looking at things the wrong way, Keegan. If he fought Lord Arion as you say, then how could he be working for the duke?”
“It might have been a trick.” Keegan looked to the big man. “To make it look like he was on our side.”
She clicked her tongue. “Sounds like an awful lot of trouble, and no little risk, just to catch some blueflies like you and your friends.”
“I gave the order.” The other man said, still watching Caim. “We’ve been hearing about spies sent by Liovard to search us out. If he’s one of them, we’ll deal with him.”
“Stop this foolishness,” Hagan said. “You’ll not harm a guest under my—”
“It’s all right.” Hands by his sides, Caim took a step toward the men. “You want to know how I got out of there alive? It’s because those soldiers talked when they should have fought.”
He took another step. “And they fought when they should have retreated.”
A third step put him within reach of the axe. “And because, for all their size and bluster, they were piss-poor fighters.”
The big man watched him with a stony expression. Sweat beaded along Keegan’s hairline. His pupils were wide with … fear? Anticipation?
“Caim!”
Kit appeared beside the door. “Men with torches and weapons outside. Lots of them!”
Caim clamped his jaws shut before the questions spinning through his mind could escape in front of these people. He didn’t want to risk hurting Hagan’s family, but he didn’t fancy a trip to a dungeon cell, or a gallows.
Kit hopped up and down. “They’re surrounding this place. Maybe it’s time to call your little friends?”
Caim didn’t even consider it. He wasn’t going to unleash the shadows inside this house. But what were his options? The thought of running on his bad leg was almost worse than rotting in a cell. He made up his mind. The look on Kit’s face was worth the cost to his ego as he let his knives drop to the floor and raised his hands.
“All right. I’ll go with you.”
The big man grabbed Caim and spun him around, and Keegan produced a coil of hemp rope.
As they bound his wrists behind his back, Caim said, “Bring my things.”
Keegan picked up the satchel and slung it over his shoulder, but he left the knives and bundles where they lay. Caim started to object, but the big man prodded him with the butt of his axe.
“Move.”
Hagan sat down in his chair with a deep sigh. Liana had gone over to stand beside her father, one hand upon his sloped shoulders.
As Caim was ushered past them, he said, “Thank you for your hospitality.”
He passed through the doorway, and the light of a dozen torches shone in his eyes.
CHAPTER EIGHT
A draft blew down on Josey’s neck as she tried not to be sick. Around her stood the members of her war council accoutered in their fine ball regalia, with capes thrown hastily over their shoulders as they answered her emergency summons. The reason was laid out on the table before them.
Poor Fenrik.
After the attempt on her life, Josey had waited in a salon with her maids and a team of bodyguards as the palace grounds were scoured. Now the notables of her court gathered in the armory hall where the remains had been brought for examination. Candlelight reflected off the weapons and polished coats of armor that hung on the walls. Looking down at the body, Josey couldn’t believe that Fenrik, a man she’d known and trusted her entire life, was dead. But she still didn’t understand how, after his escape, his body had appeared under her bed. She felt like she might be going insane.
“Drained of blood, you say?” Lord Du’Quendel asked through a scarf pressed over his nose and mouth.
Hubert wore a rapier at his side, the first time Josey had seen him wear the sword since … since Caim’s bogus funeral.
“That is correct, my lord,” Hubert replied.
Standing at Josey’s side, Anastasia shook her head. “It’s terrible.”
Duke Mormaer reached over and turned the corpse’s head to the side, revealing jagged wounds on the throat. They looked like the marks a beast might make tearing into its prey. Lord Du’Quendel gasped and pressed his scarf tighter to his mouth. Josey bit down hard on her tongue to keep her stomach from rebelling; she was still a little queasy, and this examination wasn’t making her feel any better.
“And what of the man who interrupted the empress’s coronation ball?” the duke asked.
Josey looked to Hubert. The agitator had been hustled out of her sight, and she’d not heard anything about him either.
“He is the son of a minor family,” Hubert said. “And, no surprise, an ardent supporter of the Church. We are in the process of determining if he had any help from the palace staff, but it appears he was alone and not involved in the attempt on the empress’s life.”
“Thank the Light,” Anastasia said.
“I trust, Lord Chancellor,” Duke Mormaer said, “that you will be fervent in your quest for the truth of the matter.”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
“No torture,” Josey said. Then, as both men looked to her, she said, “I do not condone it, Lord Chancellor, not for this or any matter. Do you understand?”
“It will be as Your Majesty commands.”
Josey glanced back to the body, the flesh pale as ivory. She remembered the way Fenrik had looked at her as he attacked, like a crazed rabid beast. Now his eyes were closed in a peaceful demeanor. His clothes were rumpled but whole, save for the torn collar. No sign of the gashes she had made with the knife now sheathed once again at her thigh. No sign of the ghastly wounds inflicted by the guardsmen as they drove the manservant away. It was like the whole thing had been a dream.
Captain Drathan cleared his throat. By his sweat-slicked hair and the shadow of stubble on his face, he had not slept since yesterday.
“We searched every foot of the grounds and found nothing amiss,” he said, his voice gruffer than normal. “There is no sign of anyone falling from Her Majesty’s chamber window. Nor did the sentries posted outside notice anything out of the ordinary.”
Duke Mormaer slapped the corpse upon the forehead. “Did this just appear out of the air, Captain?”
Before Captain Drathan could answer, Josey snapped, “Be so kind as to unhand my servant, Your Grace.”
Mormaer lifted his hand from Fenrik’s white-haired pate. He started to say something, but a voice called from the entryway.
“If you would, stand away from the body!”
Everyone turned to where a man stood beyond the door sentries. He was short and wore a brown overcoat several sizes too big. That, combined with a frumpy blue-brimmed hat and big shiny boots, made him look like a barker from a carnival show. He started to enter the chamber, but the soldiers blocked his way. He stopped short of their poleaxes and looked past them.
“Who let this man into the palace?” Hubert asked. “Guards, escort him out.”
The man in the hat stared at the sentries as if daring them to try. He reminded her of someone, but Josey couldn’t place where she might have seen him before. She stopped the guardsmen as they moved to obey.
“Wait.” Josey pulled free of Anastasia. “Who are you? How did you get inside the palace unescorted?”
He made a bow, doffing his hat to reveal a circle of rust-red hair. Returning his hat to its rightful place, he answered, “I am Hirsch, adept of the Enclave. I have come to see the empress.”
Josey looked to Hubert, who lifted both hands as if to say he had no explanation.
“I am Empress Josephine. What is your business here?”
“I have been sent to assist you in this dire time.”
The man—the adept—pulled a scroll from inside his sleeve and held it out. Josey wasn’t sure what to make of this. With a nod, she instructed one of the guards to bring her the scroll. Hubert moved to take it, but she waved him aside. She was tired of being treated like a piece of the palace décor. The wax seal that bound the scroll was stamped with a sigil she didn’t recognize, an owl clutching a rod and a sheaf of papers in its talons. Josey broke it open. The message inside was written in stark black ink.
Empress Josephine,
In accordance with the enduring pact between the Empire of Nimea and our Benevolent Society, the Enclave of the Unseen offers to Your Person the service of this adept, Hirsch Red-Hand, for as long as Your Majesty should require it. We desire nothing in exchange save for the continuation of the proprieties and conditions agreed upon by our forebears.
In Highest Regard,
High Magus Threptos
Hubert looked up from reading over her shoulder. “Enclave of the Unseen, eh? An apt name for an organization we know nothing about.”
Josey held up the scroll. “What does this mean by the ‘enduring pact’ between us?”
Hirsch scratched the end of his pug nose. “The accord was created three hundred years ago between the Enclave and the Empire. For generations, our order has served the rulers of Nimea, but the recent regime was … prejudiced against me and my brethren. We have remained out of sight, underground you might say, until the day we could once again step into the light. It is the sincere wish of my superiors that, with your assent, that day has come.”
While Josey pondered the statement, Mormaer leaned both hands on the table.
“Bona fides from an imaginary society are worthless. I suggest that this man be taken into custody and interrogated concerning tonight’s events.”
“It is because of tonight’s events that I am here,” the adept said.
Josey stared into his eyes. By all the stories she’d been told as a child, that was the wrong thing to do with an adept, but she wanted to see if there was deception in his gaze.
“How did you know?” she asked. “No one outside this chamber has been informed of the attempt on my life.”
“The cabalists of my order see far, lass. Little that happens within the city walls is hidden from us.”
Not sure how to take that, Josey gestured for the guards to stand aside. Hirsch came over to the table, leaning between Du’Quendel and Mormaer without giving either noble so much as a glance.
“A close friend?”
“He was in my father’s employ.” Josey glanced at Hubert. How farseeing was this adept if he couldn’t tell a servant from a noble of the court by dress alone? “I have known him my entire life.”
Hirsch bent down and peeled back one of Fenrik’s eyelids. “Male. Sixty-three years of age.”
Josey almost bit her tongue at that. “How did you—?”
But the adept kept on talking as if he were the only one in the room. “Contusions at the left carpal spur. More along the sixth rib, right side, and up through the sternum. Serrations at the neck juncture.” He stuck his forefinger into the throat wounds. “Two digits in depth.”
Anastasia averted her eyes as Hirsch moved around the table, not bothering to look up to see who he was jostling. Duke Mormaer stepped out of his way with a frown. The adept whispered something under his breath as he placed a hand on Fenrik’s chest. Then he stood up straight as a flagpole and rushed over to Josey. Like everyone else, she was so surprised by this sudden flurry of movement that she just stood there as he grasped her by the arm and pressed two fingers against the underside of her wrist.
Hubert grabbed for the adept. “Unhand the empress!”
Hirsch hissed a word and Hubert fell back against the table, his face frozen into a mask of terror. When the guards raised their weapons, Hirsch gazed deep into Josey’s eyes.
“Did it bite you?”
His tone was harsh, almost commanding, but there was concern in his eyes, true apprehension for her welfare. With her free hand, Josey held the advancing soldiers in abeyance.
“No.”
“Are you sure? Even a scratch—”
“No,” she repeated, firmer this time. “Why? What did you see?”
Hirsch let go of her arm. Hubert recovered enough to put himself between them. Josey was touched by the gesture, but if the adept meant to harm her she felt certain no one in the room could have stopped him.
“Tell me,” she whispered. “What did you see?”
“Your man was killed by a voldak, a creature of the Shadow that survives on human blood. This body must be burned at once.”
Josey looked around the table. Everyone’s face was marred by confusion. A year ago she would have laughed at those words, but she had been through a lot since then. She wanted to think she had grown up.
“How do you know this?” she asked.
Hirsch pointed to the neck wounds. “The voldak injects a paralytic toxin with its bite when it wants to kill, and then drains the body of blood. But certain contagions can also be spread by means of the monster’s saliva, so precautions must be—”
“God’s breath!” Duke Mormaer said. “Enough of this farce. Take this man away before we’re all bewildered by his words.”
“No,” Josey said. “I believe he is telling the truth.”
“Are you a seer now as well, Majesty?”
“I am your liege, Your Grace. As such, I expect you to believe me when I say I saw my manservant stabbed repeatedly before he leapt from my chamber window. Only to find the same man, moments later, dead on the floor of my chamber.”
Their gazes remained locked for a moment, and then Duke Mormaer turned on his heels and strode out of the chamber. Josey looked to Hubert.
“Burn the body.” Then she said to Hirsch, “Does that solve the problem?”