Heir to the Raven (The Pierced Veil, #1)

by J. Wesley Bush

  The court burst in to laughter, with the king’s high voice heard over them all. “Master of Revels,” he yelled over the noise, “engage this man for the time we are here! Find accommodations for our new fool!”

  Just then, a desperate voice called out from the back of the room. “Your Majesty! My apologies for being late, but I must see you. I beg your indulgence.”

  Begging is always the way to Randolf’s heart, Helaena thought. He craves respect. She stepped up on tiptoes to see who was speaking. A burly knight in Mauntell black and gold pushed his way through the crowd, looking haggard and travel-worn. She remembered him vaguely from visits with Duke Mauntell. He carried a beautiful falchion, a true relic of old Jandaria, much like her father’s sword, though not translucent.

  “No one goes armed before the king,” Sir Gladwin said, stepping down from the dais and interposing himself.

  “It is a gift for His Majesty.” The knight licked his lips nervously. “I come to ask a boon.”

  “Step aside, Gladwin. This man is clearly in need of our aid.”

  Helaena watched raptly as the knight approached the high seat with the blade held flat across his palms. Sweat beaded his forehead, despite the coolness of the room. His face was a mask of worry. Whatever he came to ask, clearly it meant everything to him.

  “Sire,” the knight said haltingly, “I am Sir Omedh of Dazipar. I have come…” He paused and seemed unsteady on his feet. Helaena noticed Sir Gladwin edge closer to him. “I must beg your forgiveness.”

  King Randolf opened his mouth to respond, but Sir Omedh shifted his grip on the falchion and swung it in a shining arc at the king.

  Gladwin’s blade clashed with the falchion with a shattering sound that made Helaena flinch and close her eyes reflexively. When she opened them, Gladwin was tossing away a broken blade and Sir Omedh had slashed the king’s hand open as he tried to shield himself.

  As the assassin raised his blade for a killing blow, Helaena and others surged forward. Gladwin reacted fastest, tackling the man and dragging him to the ground. “Hold!” he shouted, slamming Sir Omedh’s head into the flagstones and then disarming him. “We need to question him!”

  Clark Istvan attended to the king’s wound, while the king caterwauled like a suckling babe. Damn the compromise that anointed such a craven, Helaena thought, turning her attention to Sir Omedh. Fat tears poured down his cheeks and he had a look of utter defeat as Sir Gladwin bound him to a sturdy chair. House Mauntell had no love for King Randolf, but they would never murder him, certainly not so openly. Who had sent this man?

  In truth, King Randolf’s list of enemies could fill a scroll. Unpopular even at the outset, he had grown paranoid and arbitrary during his reign, and proud Jandari lords did not take well to insults.

  “That sword is enchanted.” Tancred the Magus crossed to the falchion and took it up, examining its blade in the light.

  Larissa sucked in her breath. “I think I can see the power on it,” she whispered to Helaena, gripping her arm. “Like a trick of the light.”

  By then royal guardsmen had cleared the room of supplicants, leaving a tense silence behind, broken only by the king’s wailing and the assassin’s quiet sobs.

  “Why, Sir Omedh? Why betray your king in this way?” Sir Gladwin asked, almost kindly.

  Oddly, the knight opened his mouth as if to answer. Helaena watched in confusion as he tried to speak, but it was as if his tongue was too big for his mouth, or a clot blocked his throat.

  “He is likewise enchanted,” Magus Tancred said, peering at the struggling knight. “A geas of silence. It may be that his attack on the king was compelled.”

  Though his arms were bound, Sir Omedh nodded frantically and gave the magus an imploring look. He gasped out a few, meaningless syllables, and then his brown skin began to purple while his lips and tongue swelled absurdly. He flashed bloodshot eyes around the room, a wheezing sound of horror escaping him.

  Larissa’s nails dug into Helaena’s arm. “What’s happening?”

  It was too awful. “Do something, Magus!” Helaena shouted.

  “I’m afraid this only ends one way,” the magus said, watching Sir Omedh coolly. “I believe he failed to complete a geas and this is the penalty.”

  In moments, the man sagged like a draining water bladder, blood oozing from eyes, ears, mouth, and every pore of his body. One of the guardsmen ran to the side of the room and emptied his stomach on the floor. Helaena felt an urge to do the same.

  By the time everyone gathered for supper that evening, the assassin was sky-buried on the savanna, the blood scrubbed up, and King Randolf was sniffing on a calming sponge laced with mandrake and hemlock. Guards in both Harlowe and royal livery were everywhere. Helaena glanced down the high table and noticed Selwyn was absent. I should go cheer him up, or he’ll spend the night brooding. Besides, after watching helplessly as a man died that day, she wanted to at least fix something. Selwyn would be leaving soon, and she couldn’t abide a rift down the middle of her family.

  After making apologies to Mother, Helaena left the table and went in search of her younger brother, rather predictably finding him in the library, buried in a book. “No supper for you tonight then?”

  Selwyn shook his head. “The vigil is a sacred thing and I don’t want my head thick with food and drink.”

  “You’re too bloody pious,” she said with mock playfulness. “So you’re not just avoiding Father?”

  “Does it matter?” Selwyn asked hollowly. “Father never wanted me around.”

  “That’s not true – he loves you the same as any of us.”

  “I was the forgotten fourth son. Didn’t even care enough to give me a Jandari name – let Mum name me Oberyn, like you.” He laughed bitterly. “Now that two other sons are dead, suddenly he notices me. It’s too late.”

  Helaena felt a terrible loss, realizing her family was never going to be whole again. “Unless you mend them quickly, these kinds of wounds leave ugly scars, little brother. Reconcile while you can.”

  CHAPTER 10

  T imble entertained the Great Hall during supper: juggling, mocking the guests, and doing tricks, such as his crowd-pleasing roll, leap, and fart. The jests brought laughs, but they were forced and anxious, everyone still shaken from that attack on the king. It was bloody disgusting, Timble thought, balancing on one hand. But it’ll make for a good story later.

  While the crowd watched him, he surveyed them as well, seeking out the likeliest person to buy his information. King Randolf wouldn’t do at all, sitting there with a sponge pressed to his nose and a stupefied look on his face. Nor would Duke Harlowe be any good. He seemed like a man of honor, the kind who would naturally hate thieves and spies. One of the hearthguards might work, but they never left their masters. He needed to find someone fast, before the news broke on its own, leaving him with nothing.

  A Jandari bard took over as his time ended, and Timble hurried from the room to escape his dreadful chanting. If the night was no good for selling information, it was perfect for theft, with most everyone in the Great Hall.

  A lone guard stood watch at the stairs down to the undercroft, a rawboned fellow staring longingly toward the Great Hall.

  “A bad night to pull duty, eh?” Timble asked, sidling up the guard.

  “Beats herding my uncle’s goats.”

  “I need a pomegranate for my next trick. Cook said I could fetch one from the undercroft.”

  “What can you do with a pomegranate?”

  Timble saw curiosity form on the man’s face. He had an audience now. And the best thing about an audience was that they wanted to believe, to be satisfied.

  “I can spit the seeds with incredible range and accuracy. Basically, I’m the Aralgameshu bowman of pomegranate seeds.”

  “Go on then. But I’ll have to search you when you come up.”

  “Naturally.” If the day ever came when he couldn’t smuggle valuables past a patdown, he’d retire and become a barkeep. Timble gave
the fellow a wink and descended the stairs, stealing a torch from the wall sconce along the way.

  At the bottom was an underground hallway lined with doors. The botlery lay open to the left.

  Splashing from the door on the right drew his attention. Hushed prayers came from inside. “High King of Heaven, God of gods, cleanse my honor from any stain,” a boy’s voice intoned, repeating it several more times.

  It must be the duke’s youngest son, Timble realized. Hardly an ideal candidate, but maybe the best he could find. At the pace Leax was hiring mercenaries, it was only a matter of time until the Jandari figured things out.

  After giving two light raps on the door, Timble stepped inside. The boy reclined in a long, wooden tub, facing away from the door. A board sat across the tub, holding a scrip of soap and a hunk of dried gourd for scrubbing.

  “Fresh water? Thank you.” The boy glanced back and his eyes widened in surprise. He clambered out of the tub, a badly-wounded leg faltering but not giving way, and wielded the bath board like a club. “Stay back, or I’ll bash in your skull. Are you an assassin?”

  Timble smiled in the least threatening way he knew how. “Sometimes. Though I would hardly admit that if I had come to kill you, would I?” He turned over an empty bucket and sat down. “I’ve got information for your lordship. It’s most properly for the king, but he seems preoccupied.”

  Selwyn circled the tub, dropped the board, and took up his belt knife. “And why would I believe you?”

  “I hear you spent the last three years on the border of Belgorsk, my lord. What have you learned of it?”

  “That their nobles are as trustworthy as vipers.”

  “Exactly. Leax is the least trustworthy of all, combining the worst aspects of drunkenness, ambition, and stupidity.”

  Keeping the knife steady, the boy pulled on his breeches. Timble kept still. He has a scary intensity for one so young, he thought. The kind that turns men into martyrs or monsters.

  The boy motioned with the blade. “What’s your name, fool?”

  “Timble is fine.”

  “Then Timble, what news do you bring?”

  “There’s the question of payment.”

  A look of exasperation crossed the boy’s face, which amused Timble. “I give you my word as a Harlowe. Your reward will be commensurate with the value of your information.”

  “That will have to do,” Timble said, feeling suddenly shy. He hated giving bad news. “This is all so awkward, but the Belgorshans plan to invade your lands and make slaves of you all.”

  The lad’s eyes widened in shock before the hard look settled back in place. “And how do you know this?”

  “I’ve just spent months entertaining Priest-King Leax. A fool is seen by all and noticed by none, and I heard many things. Leax is gathering a host.”

  “Turn around and put your hands on the wall,” the boy said. Timble obeyed and heard him pull on his tunic. “Walk. We’ll speak with the castellan – he’ll know how to handle this.”

  On the main floor, Selwyn approached the first guards they saw. “You there, get Castellan Chegatay and tell him it’s urgent. And you, Joska, isn’t it? Keep your weapon on this man while I tie my breeches.”

  A hulking man tromped into the hall soon after, looking like a bear draped in finery, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion. It’s not every day you see a half-dressed lord holding a jester at knifepoint, Timble supposed.

  “I have a feast to oversee, Lord Selwyn. What precipitated your summons?”

  “War,” Selwyn said, his voice sounding sheepish. “This fool, Timble, claims to know something of a plot by Leax.”

  He left out the most important part. Timble rang one of the bells on his coxcomb. “The young lord promised a reward.”

  The castellan ignored him. “Very well. The magus and I shall discourse with the fool. You should return to your preparation. Have you finished the ablutions?”

  “Clean in soul and body. Are you sure I shouldn’t come along?”

  “This is probably nothing. A man’s knighting comes once in his life. Go prepare.”

  Once the young lord was gone, Sir Chegatay wrapped one of his paws around the back of Timble’s neck. It would take nothing for the man to snap his spine, like a dog with a rat.

  “It’s true – I swear by all nine augurs, and even the tenth if he ever shows up!”

  “The magus will put you to the question. For your sake, I hope you speak verily.”

  “I’m telling the truth, but magic won’t prove it.” Timble scowled, regretting visiting that hedge witch for protection back in Belgorsk. It was damnably inconvenient now.

  Sir Chegatay dragged him down the stairs, shouting for someone to fetch rope and the magus. Minutes later, Timble found himself tied to a stout chair in the botlery and deep underground, which was no doubt convenient, as his screams wouldn’t disturb the feast.

  The magus arrived soon after, a handsome man late in his second decade, with a forked beard and russet robes. Timble recognized him instantly; the man had passed through Leax’s court during Timble’s regrettable stay in Belgorsk.

  “You picked an interesting time to come forward,” the magus said, pushing up Timble’s sleeve and grasping his forearm. “Right after an attempt on the king’s life. I’m going to put a geas on you; do you know what this means?”

  That voice. Timble nodded distractedly, his focus all on identifying the voice. He spoke with the harsh consonants of Sigga and a damnably familiar arrogance. It quickened a memory that flitted just out of reach. “It probably won’t work. Want to know why?”

  “There’s only one reason why – you went to a hedge mage and bought protection. We shall see.” The magus closed his eyes and murmured softly for a few moments, then intoned, “Speak truth regarding this supposed invasion, or your heart will freeze in your chest.”

  Having been magicked before, Timble waited for the familiar tingle to raise hair on his arms, but nothing happened. Blast, that hedge witch was genuine.

  The magus cursed under his breath. “He’s protected until the new moon.”

  Sir Chegatay loomed over him, balling his fists. “Fool, if you wished to peddle intelligence, why make it impossible for us to ascertain its veracity?”

  Attention divided between the magus’s elusive familiarity and the ridgeline of Chegatay’s knuckles, it took Timble a moment to answer. “Leax likes his little games. Had his court magus put spells on us. Amusing, hateful spells. Believe me, I wish I hadn’t now.”

  “Tancred,” Sir Chegatay said, “could you…” He pointed to his own eye, then to Timble’s.

  “He’s protected from that as well.”

  Long buried memories kicked him in the stomach. Tancred. He remembered an almost-pretty boy a few years his senior, the darling of the troupe-master and the crowds. So charming, so confident. He remembered the boy destroying everything.

  Only a lifetime of playacting kept Timble from showing his hand. How he wanted to scream abuse at Tancred, rage at the way he had ruined his life and set him on the street. Instead he kept a level expression and shrugged. “You are welcome to question me. Or we can wait until the new moon, and hope Leax waits to invade.”

  Chegatay and Tancred stepped out into the hall and shut the door, leaving him alone. A few minutes later, the king’s hearthguard entered alone. “I am Sir Gladwin. They tell me you have come to the aid of Jandaria. If so, I thank you.”

  From his dignified bearing and the gentleness of his words, Timble had his measure immediately. This is a true knight. In his experience, these came in two varieties. The first was a fraudster’s dream, bluff and honest, too lost in chivalry to see the scam; the second was an honorable man who recognized the evil around him but stayed upright. They could be a nightmare, seeing through lies and immune to bribes or blackmail. Either variety will work this time, Timble thought. For once I’m telling the truth.

  “You claim that Leax plans to invade,” the hearthguard said flatly. “When did
you hear him state this?”

  “In his solar, among other places. He boasted more than once to the Chosen that he would give each of them new lands in Jandaria. Another time he swore to his favorite concubine that she’d be lady of Chimkant before the year is out.” Timble laughed. “Gods, man, have you no spies of your own? He practically sent his herald to announce it.”

  Judging from Gladwin’s expression, Timble guessed that they had few spies in Belgorsk. The two kingdoms hadn’t fought in decades, and he remembered Leax once mocking King Randolf for thinking him a loving cousin.

  “You said he was gathering his host. Did you see it?”

  “Not with my own eyes. But the bannermen all left court at the same time – I think to muster their fiefs. And Leax started hosting mercenary agents in private dinners, some you’ve definitely heard of: Blackhelms, Paldrick’s Heavy Horse, the Arbalests of Gorst.”

  “Those are all excellent companies. And the sort of names one would use in making up a story like this one.”

  Timble shrugged. “You can either pay me now, or I can come back and you can pay me after Leax invades. I’m telling you the truth.”

  “What about the attempt on King Randolf?”

  “What about it?”

  “Did the priest-king ever discuss killing him?”

  Timble considered lying, but decided against it. For once he had truth on his side, so why jinx it with falsehood? “No. I never heard nothing about killing the king. Just annexing the country and enslaving all of you.”

  For what felt like an eternity, but was probably only a few hours, Sir Gladwin continued to press him with questions. It wasn’t Timble’s first interrogation, though certainly the most courteous. The hearthguard asked a bevy of questions twenty different ways, which made sense, for truth is steady, but lies go wobbly.

  Finally, Gladwin met his eyes for several moments, neither of them blinking. Timble was good at that sort of game. The hearthguard blinked and nodded. “I’ve tortured men before, for my king. This time it doesn’t seem to be necessary. You shall have the run of the castle, but don’t try to leave. The guards and ferrymen will be warned against it.”