“You had two guests here a few days ago,” he said. “Toscans, I believe.”
Joel nodded immediately. “That’s right. Wool buyers, they were. Signore Mordon and Seraf-something-or-other.”
“Mordini and Serafino,” Will corrected him, and Joel continued his nodding.
“Yes. That’d be them. I can never remember foreign names too well.”
“And they were Toscans?”
“They certainly sounded like it. It’s a pretty obvious accent, after all.”
Will’s eyes narrowed. The Toscan accent was a broad one, and easily recognized. Which made it all the easier for a non-Toscan to mimic, he thought.
“And you say they were wool buyers,” he queried.
Joel allowed himself a smile. “Actually, they said it. I was just repeating it. Why do you ask? Have they been up to no good?”
Will ignored the question as he stood, deep in thought. “Did they do any trading?” he asked finally.
Joel shrugged, his face blank. “I wouldn’t know. I suppose Barret would be the one to answer that.”
Barret was the largest wool broker in the village. Most of the farmers from the surrounding area sent their wool to him for sale. He did the trading and kept a commission on each sale.
“So he would. I’ll ask him,” Will said.
But when he asked the wool broker, he met another blank.
“They never approached me, Ranger,” Barret said. “I met them in the tavern once, and Joel told me they were in the wool business. But I never heard from them. Don’t know why. Maybe my stock’s not good enough.” He sounded miffed by the fact that he’d been ignored. He half suspected that the Toscan buyers had found a better price from one of the smaller brokers in an outlying hamlet. If that were the case, he would have liked the chance to haggle a little. Barret disliked losing business.
Frowning, Will made his way back to the inn. The lunch trade was now in full swing and the taproom was three-quarters full. He caught Joel’s eye and beckoned him over.
“About those Toscans,” he said. “Have you re-let their room since they left?”
Joel shook his head. “No. Business has been slow this past week. We changed the linen and made the beds. And Anna would have swept it out, of course. Did you want to look around in there?”
“If you don’t mind,” Will said.
Joel crossed to the bar and unhooked a key from the rack on the wall.
“Up the stairs and second room on the right,” he said. “But I’m pretty sure they left nothing behind.”
He was right. The room was tidy and empty. There was no sign that it had been occupied by two men a few days previously. Or was there? Will sniffed the air experimentally. The window had been kept closed and there was a faint trace of . . . something in the room. Something familiar. A slightly sweet smell. Not unpleasant. It was only the barest vestige of a scent and it was difficult to place it. He moved around the room, testing the air in different spots. In some spots, he couldn’t pick it up at all. It was most obvious by the beds.
“So,” he said to himself, a little vexed, “we have two Toscan wool buyers who don’t buy wool and leave a faint perfume behind in their room. How curious.”
He walked slowly downstairs, deep in thought, and returned the key to the rack. He waved farewell to Joel and stepped out into the afternoon sunlight. If only he could identify that smell, he thought. He was sure it was a familiar one. But the more he tried to place it, the farther the answer seemed to slip from his grasp.
It wasn’t until that evening that he realized what it was.
He was braiding a new bowstring. He’d noticed some slight fraying on the one currently on his bow and thought it better to replace it before it deteriorated further.
He finished forming the loops at either end, securing them with wound thread. Then he reached into his tool kit for a lump of beeswax to finish the job and bind the individual threads that made the string into one cohesive whole. As he began to rub the wax along the string, and small flakes of wax fell off onto the floor, the pleasantly sweet smell struck his nostrils.
Beeswax! That’s what he’d noticed in the room. It was used by archers to strengthen and waterproof their bowstrings. And used on crossbow strings as well.
His mind had been probing a suspicion that the Toscans were not Toscans at all, but were from a neighboring city-state where the inhabitants spoke with a similar accent. It was a difficult accent to conceal, and so the best way for the two strangers to hide their identities might have been to assume a similar accent and pose as Toscans.
Instead of Genovesans.
He couldn’t have said why he had been thinking about Genovesans since he’d heard of the presence of two foreigners in the village—and found their names scrawled on Robard’s sketch. Serafino and
Mordini could just as easily be Genovesan names as Toscan, and the average Araluen wouldn’t know the difference between the two.
Robard had died suspiciously. Perhaps his death had been suicide, but Will wasn’t convinced. And it seemed that his death was due to poisoning—a skill the Genovesan assassins were expert in. Years of training with Halt had led Will not to simply accept what seemed to be the obvious when there were circumstances out of the ordinary. As Halt had drummed into him on many occasions: Better to suspect something and find nothing than suspect nothing and find something.
“So,” he said aloud, “if they are Genovesans, what are they doing here?” Ebony raised her head at the sound of his voice. Then, realizing he wasn’t talking to her, she let her head fall again with a sigh of contentment.
The most likely answer was that they were in Wensley to plan an assassination. That was what Genovesans did, more often than not. They were professional assassins whose weapons included the crossbow, a multiplicity of razor-sharp daggers and—last but by no means least—poisons in a variety of forms.
“Maybe they’re after me and Halt,” he mused to Ebony.
The dog looked at him, moving only her eyes. Then she thumped her tail once on the floor.
“Who’s after me now?” asked a voice behind him, and he turned to see Halt grinning at him. Rangers loved to surprise each other with their silent movement and concealment skills. Usually, Will was hard to catch off guard, but tonight he was preoccupied with thoughts of the mysterious foreigners.
Halt was muddy and tired after a long day in the saddle, trailing the mail coach—to no avail, as it turned out. He had stopped by the cabin to draft a report of the day’s activities while they were still fresh in his mind. Then he was heading for a hot bath, followed by dinner with Pauline.
Quickly, Will laid out his suspicions. Halt listened, frowning.
“It’s quite a leap to have two Toscan wool merchants turn into two Genovesan assassins—all on the strength of a little beeswax,” he said when his former apprentice had finished.
“Except they didn’t buy any wool, and their names were in Robard’s room. And he died by poisoning,” Will added.
“That’s true,” Halt conceded. “Any idea where they are now?”
Will shook his head. “Nobody knew where they were heading. Mind you, they could be camped in the forest somewhere close by.”
“What makes you think that you and I might be their targets?” Halt asked.
“I don’t really,” Will said. “It was just conjecture. Who else here do they have reason to hate?”
Some time previously, in Hibernia, and then in the north of Araluen, the two Rangers had clashed with three Genovesan mercenaries. The result had been three dead assassins, although Halt had nearly lost his life in the process. But Halt waved the idea of revenge away.
“It’s not a matter of who they hate,” he said, with his usual disregard for grammar. “That’s not their style. They kill for money, not for revenge. You have to find a target someone else hates—someone who’s paid them.”
There was a short silence as they mulled over the situation. Then, seeing that no answer seemed
likely to spring to mind, Will asked about Halt’s activities.
“Nothing,” the gray-bearded Ranger said in disgust. “I trailed that coach for miles, through rivers, through valleys. It poured rain for two hours and I got soaked. And never a sign of bandits.”
“Maybe they saw you,” Will said, and was rewarded with an icy glare from his mentor. When a Ranger didn’t wish to be seen, he wasn’t. “Sorry,” Will added meekly. “When’s the next trip?”
“Ten days,” Halt said. “And it’s a long one. I might not make it back for the wedding.”
“Pauline won’t like that.” Will grinned and Halt glared at him.
“She has already made that abundantly clear,” he said. “Made any progress on that speech?”
Will scowled. “I’ve been a bit tied up lately. I’ll get to it.”
Halt raised an eyebrow. “Time’s passing every day,” he said mildly.
The wedding would happen within the month. Already, dignitaries were beginning to arrive at Redmont.
“Why isn’t the wedding being held at Castle Araluen?” Will asked. He’d been wondering about that for some time.
“Officially, the dining hall there is being refurbished and won’t be ready in time. Also, Evanlyn feels that the whole affair will be more informal and friendly here. A little less magnificent was the term she used. Unofficially, Duncan liked the idea of having Jenny and Master Chubb do the catering.”
“Still, he could have drafted them to do the catering at Araluen,” Will said, but Halt shook his head gravely.
“That would have put his own chef’s nose out of joint. It’s never a wise thing for a king to annoy his chef. Too easy for him to slip something unpleasant into his food and . . .”
In the same instant, they both realized the significance of what they were saying. The King would be here in Redmont at the end of the month—along with other nobles and rulers of several overseas countries.
“What do you think?” Will asked. There was no need for him to spell out his meaning. Their thoughts were attuned.
“I think it’s all circumstantial and vague,” said Halt. “But I think you should check it out thoroughly.”
3
DURING THE NEXT FEW DAYS, WILL CRISSCROSSED THE SURROUNDING countryside, searching for traces of the two foreign wool traders. He asked in nearby hamlets and villages, but the men had not been seen anywhere. He also combed the woods and the forests, in case the two men were camped somewhere in the vicinity. But he found nothing.
After several days, the urgency went out of his search and he began to think that he had overreacted. When he pressed himself to think about it, he could come up with half a dozen plausible explanations for the evidence he had uncovered, none of which involved assassination.
In addition, things at Redmont were becoming increasingly hectic with the arrival of local and overseas dignitaries.
First of these was Erak, Oberjarl of the Skandians. In typical fashion, Erak eschewed traveling overland on horseback but sailed up the Tarbus River in his old wolfship, Wolfwind. As he approached the small quay at the outskirts of Wensley Village, his men hoisted a long pennant to the masthead. Will couldn’t suppress a grin as he recognized it. It was Evanlyn’s—or, more correctly, Princess Cassandra’s—personal pennant of a stooping hawk. Erak had flown the banner many years previously, when he had returned Cassandra, with Will, Halt and Horace, to Castle Araluen. Then, he had done it to still any fears in the hearts of Araluens who saw a wolfship so far inland. Now, with a treaty in place for many years, those fears were unlikely.
“We’re going to have to get him to return that one of these days,” Halt said to Will as they watched the ship approach.
Will grinned. “Have you ever convinced a Skandian to give anything back?”
Halt shook his head gloomily. Then they stepped down the quay to welcome their old friend and ally, philosophically resigning themselves to the bruised ribs that would result from Erak’s enthusiastic greeting.
When he recovered his breath, Will commented on the fact that Erak was yet to adopt the new Heron-class sail plan for his venerable ship. Erak smiled.
“We’re both too old to change our ways,” he said cheerfully. “Besides, it does my crew good to have to do some extra rowing. They’re getting fat and complacent.”
A few days later, the greeting ceremony was repeated as Seley el’then, Wakir of the Arridi province of Al Shabah, arrived in his turn. Will searched through his entourage for sight of a familiar face.
“Umar isn’t coming?” he said, with some disappointment.
Selethen shook his head. “Unfortunately, he’s too fond of his desert sands. The prospect of setting foot on a ship was too much for him.”
“I’m sorry to hear it,” Will said. Umar and his Bedullin tribe had rescued him from death in the burning desert wastes when he had gone in search of Tug, lost in a sandstorm.
Selethen smiled mischievously. “So was his wife. She was looking forward to a wedding. I fear Umar will suffer for this.”
In all the bustle of settling the Skandians and Arridi into their quarters, the matter of the Toscan wool traders slipped from Will’s consciousness until, by chance, he ran into Desmond one afternoon. The head steward beckoned to him as he was making his way through the keep courtyard to attend to a matter of the stabling of the Arridi troops’ horses.
“Will!” Desmond said. “I’ve been meaning to show you something.”
He handed over a piece of paper that had obviously been crumpled into a ball, then unfolded and smoothed out. Will studied it with mild interest. It appeared to be a table plan for a banquet.
Down one side was a series of notes. Will read them, frowning.
Entry. Meal service and speeches. Dance. Departure. The sight of the word Speeches gave him a guilty start. He was really going to have to do something about his own speech, he thought. He looked more closely. There was a small mark beside the word Dance, and he studied it for a second or two. He noticed the left-hand side of the plan had been heavily scratched out. He pointed to it.
“What’s this?” he asked.
Desmond nodded. “Yes. I wondered about that too. Then I checked and realized we’d changed the plan for that part of the hall when we heard there’d be two shiploads of Skandians. We had to put the Gallican delegation there—they’re not fond of our Skandian friends.”
Realization dawned on Will. “This is the seating plan for the wedding feast?” he said, and when Desmond nodded, he added, “Where did it come from?” Even as he asked, he had a sense that he already knew.
“We found it in Robard’s room. He had a small bin he used for rubbish. It was under the fallen drape, which was why we didn’t notice it. One of the maids found it a day or so later when she was tidying up. She put it aside but forgot to give it to me until yesterday.”
“Why would he have this?” Will asked.
Desmond shrugged casually. “It’s not unusual. Even though we’d demoted him, I still used him to help with table planning and seating arrangements.”
Will fingered his chin thoughtfully. In spite of Desmond’s reassurance, his suspicions were aroused. He studied the drawing and noticed another small mark, this time between two buttresses on the east wall.
“What’s this?” he asked, and Desmond leaned over to look.
He shrugged, his face blank. “No idea,” he said. “Could be just a mark on the paper—a blot or a stain of some kind. It’s pretty faint.”
“It’s right opposite the bridal table,” Will pointed out. A large rectangle marked the position where the bridal party would be seated on a raised dais. Desmond simply shrugged again. He didn’t seem to think that was any cause for alarm. Will tapped the sheet of paper with the back of his hand.
“Let’s go and take a look at this spot,” he said, and he strode away toward the keep, Desmond hurrying behind him.
Servants were already at work in the Great Hall, building the raised platform where Cassandra, H
orace, Duncan, Will and Alyss would be seated. The scent of fresh-sawn pine filled the air.
Will positioned himself between the two buttresses. They were four meters apart, and as he had noticed, standing there put him directly opposite the platform.
Desmond stood beside him, more than a little curious. “What are you worried about?” he said.
Will gestured toward the half-built platform. “I’m thinking this would be an ideal vantage point if someone wanted to harm the King. Those buttresses would pretty much conceal an attacker from view,” Will replied.
But before he finished the sentence, Desmond was shaking his head. “Not on the day,” he said, pointing to the sketch. “On the day, this area will be packed with people and tables. There’ll be at least thirty people who will have a clear view of this point. I think you’re imagining things, Will.”
But Will wasn’t convinced. “Maybe,” he said. Then he added, “I’ll hold on to this sketch if you don’t mind.”
Desmond made an expansive gesture with his hands. “Be my guest. Now, if you don’t need me any further, I have one or two things to attend to.”
“Just one or two?” Will grinned. He knew the head steward was run off his feet with preparations for the wedding. Desmond rolled his eyes dolefully.
“Make that one or two hundred,” he said.
Later that night, Will sat for some time, a mug of coffee gradually going cold beside him, as he studied the rough drawing, trying to make sense of the cryptic marks. A small cross beside the word Dance. And another mark, perhaps nothing more than a blemish, against the wall between the buttresses. Desmond was right, he realized. A crossbowman would have no chance of remaining unseen there, with the area packed with happy, noisy guests. Further, even if there was a way he could remain unseen, his view of the platform would be constantly obscured by people coming and going, greeting each other, moving from one table to another, and by a constant procession of servants bringing food and wine.
The Lost Stories Page 25