“So then the widow dies, leaving only a pup of a boy to inherit. Can’t have that, now can we?” Swan said, taking a short breath before continuing his jolly tale of defrauding an orphan. “Naturally, us Blacks got together with some of the Reds and agreed to divide things. A Red got the land and title, but my boy gets the proceeds from the watermill for the next ten years. Not a bad bit of bargaining, I thought, since my branch of the family had never set foot in the place!” His laughter rolled across the savanna, frightening a herd of brown ungulates.
Desperate to change the subject, Addison gestured to the kite shield hanging from Swan’s saddle. “Your shield’s bordered in black, but I can see traces of white at the edges. Were you once a White?”
Swan pulled a hunk of brightleaf from a pouch and wedged it behind his lip. “Red, white, black… those are just words. Father was a White until five years ago, when the Blacks offered him the kingship. I switched when he did.”
“If they don’t mean anything, why do the colors matter?”
“You’re from Eastmark, right?”
Addison stepped his horse carefully over a deep rut in the trail. “Yes, from a small island off the coast.”
“From what I hear, you’ve still got a few republics scattered among the duchies and principalities.”
“Two at present. A third fell to a tyrant several years ago.”
Swan adjusted the wad of leaf in his mouth. “And they have parties, right? Maybe one for the merchants, another for the farmers. They mean something. Swans don’t have parties: we have a family.” A stream of pink liquid squirted into the grass. “The colors help us distribute the kingdom. When a barony comes open, or a king needs choosing, the colors decide in the Family Council. Plus, each of the colors gets rule of one of the three regions. But a fellow could be a White this week and a Red the next, depending on the need of the moment.”
“But people can’t really live that way. You must have loyalty to something.”
Scratching at the bit of cheek not covered in beard, Swan answered, “Course I do. I’m loyal to the family. ‘Specially those from a female relation.”
Addison frowned in confusion. “Why would that be?”
“Women have babies and men have maybes. All Swans are like that. If you want to help a close relation, best to know he actually is one, and not the stablehand’s by-blow. That’s why I came south — wanted to watch my sister’s boy get knighted.”
“Are you and Alethea close then?”
“She’s family. Weren’t you listening?” He spat again.
Ahead, the hills of the Swanlands shown on the horizon. Addison gave thanks that the ride would eventually end.
“You haven’t told me why you’re visiting the Swanlands. Going to the chapterhouse?”
Addison shook his head. “Heading to the west of the country. The Order wants me in Tethmere.”
“The old capital? It’s not much more than a town with a burnt-down palace. What could the Order want there?”
“Order business. Wish I could tell you more.”
That night they shared a dinner of fresh papaya and salted fish. “Reckon I seen you before,” Swan said, his beard speckled with bits of fish. “Didn’t recognize you at the feast, but I know your armor. They call you the Garnet Knight.”
Addison was resting against an acacia tree, the armor beside him. “Won it early in my tournament career – other than dear old Intrepid, it’s the only thing I own.” He gave it an affectionate pat, the fulfillment of many a childhood dream. “Where did we meet?”
“The tourney at Branden Ford, in Trenoweth. Crossed you in the melee. Gave you a good dent with my mace.” He examined the left pauldron of the armor. “Looks like you hammered it out.”
“I remember that melee.” Addison winced in remembrance. “The armor is pact-hardened; you’ve got a bloody mean swing with a mace, Swan. I lost a horse to you in the melee but won it back in the joust.”
“I’m better sized for melee than joust.” Swan tossed the fish bones away. “Why’d you give up the tourney circuit?”
Addison considered his answer. Tournaments had once been everything to him: the cheer of crowds, the easy wealth, the admiring women; but a bout of typhus had shown him the fleeting nature of temporal glory and the emptiness of riches. It was then he had sought out the Order of the Hidden Throne, determined to pursue true chivalry and a life of service.
Such a truth would mean nothing to a man like Waldrich Swan. “Needed something with a future.”
They set watches and got some rest, then it was back on the trail. Two more days passed with Addison smiling through his annoyance. Plenty of Order knights were poor specimens, but none were as nakedly venal as Waldrich Swan. He was also a brilliant, habitual liar. The lies were smooth and easy, but Addison knew enough of the world to see through them occasionally. Waldrich was a man without a conscience.
In time, the grasslands of Jandaria gave way to rolling hills and thick forest. Despite the tree cover, the sun beat down on his head and he wished for his scarf, which brought fond memories of Helaena. While a simple knight could never hope for a highborn lady, even were he not sworn to celibacy, he could still admire one. Helaena seemed admirable of character, and her form was easy to admire.
Thoughts of Helaena helped him endure the final hours with Waldrich until their paths diverged at the town of Furston Brook, his fork leading west to the old capital of Tethmere, while Baron Swan rode north for home. They took their leave by the brook.
“It was pleasant traveling with you,” Addison said, as courtesy demanded.
“I’ve had worse companions. Good luck in Tethmere.” It was clear he suspected Addison’s true destination. Waldrich Swan gave his courser a spur in the ribs and rode off to the north.
The road to Tethmere was a long one, taking nearly four days, but Addison enjoyed it. Instead of drear caravan duty, he was a lone knight on a secret mission – this was what he’d dreamed the Order would be. The land was beautiful, with lush woods alternating with meadows covered in red clover, brightleaf or barley. The handful of travelers he met on the road were friendly and happy to share their camps with a knight. He was almost disappointed to reach the old city.
Tethmere itself was unimpressive, the walls dilapidated and covered in black growth. It lay just across the border from Belgorsk, so it was time to be cautious. He drew his cloak around the distinctive red armor and stowed his shield in a saddlebag. Only three guardsmen held the gate and they waved him through with barely a look. Inside the walls, many buildings had crumbled over time, roofs caved in and open windows staring like derelicts. Over it all loomed the torched skeleton of a castle, the last refuge of the dead kings of Tethmere. As soon as Addison rode beyond sight of the guards, a passel of street boys appeared from the ruins. Skinny and filthy, with the chestnut hair of the western Swanlands, they were nearly indistinguishable from one another. “What are you seeking, sir?”
“Need a guide, milord?”
Addison smiled. “I’m in need of an armorer. Does Tethmere have one?”
Six dusty heads bobbed as one. “Aye, milord. Quick Tom was born down the way from it. He c’n take you.”
A palm reached skyward. “Five copper.”
Addison fed two coppers into the waiting hand. “Three more when we’ve reached the shop.”
Quick Tom was as good as his name, setting off without another word. Addison spurred his horse to keep up. After several minutes, they came to a pale blue sign emblazoned with a frog-mouthed helm.
“There it is,” Tom said proudly, the filthy hand raising to be fed once more. “I won’t go no closer. His wife don’t like me. Is there anything else I can fetch you? Woman? Room for the night?”
“A modest room would be welcome,” Addison said. “Someplace secure.”
“The Red Leaf is a good place. Just down this street. Not sure why, but the sign outside has a goat on it.” After a moment he added, “But don’t mention my name, ‘cause they don
’t like me neither.”
Addison gave the lad a silver. “If you hear of cavalry passing through, I’ll be at the Red Leaf.”
The boy stared disbelievingly at the coin and then nodded quickly. “Of course, sir,” he said, tucking away the treasure.
A patina of soot covered everything in the armorer’s shop, including the woman at the counter, and the wrinkles in her face flashed white when she spoke. Addison paid for black lacquer on the armor and a repaint for his shield, crossed swords on blue – the commonest symbol with the most popular heraldic color.
It turned out the Red Leaf did have a fading goat on its sign, for no reason Addison could discern. A boy took his horse around back for stabling and Addison secured lodgings. Then he went to the public room to listen for news of mercenaries, smiling all the while. For the first time since joining the Order, it lived up to the imaginings of childhood.
CHAPTER 21
T imble didn’t know how or why Duke Harlowe got himself poisoned, but he was sure the magus did it. While Tancred might not have recognized him, Timble remembered that smug, handsome face from childhood. He’d only been eleven when Tancred ruined his life, but the memory of betrayal was evergreen. Once Timble learned the man’s secrets, he would take away his comfortable life, just as Tancred had done to him.
With the king gone and Nineacre Castle in mourning, there was little place for a jester; eventually they would send him away, so he needed to get busy with the work of vengeance. Donning his best motley, he set off for the kitchens. They were well-built and set into the curtain wall, with chimney-hearths at both ends. The shutters were open on each window, and smoke and delicious scents filled the courtyard. “Look lively,” he heard someone call from inside. “He’s returning soon with the meats. Faie help you if things ain’t ready.”
Putting on his winningest smile, Timble stepped inside, careful to trip over the last flagstone and tumble his way to a nearby servant. He dusted off his motley while waiting for the laughter to subside. “Hello, Cook. Anything for a hungry fool to eat?”
“I’m Second Cook.” Timble recognized the voice from a moment before. “Cook’s out gettin’ the meats. Lunch ain’t for two bells.”
Second Cook resembled an inflated goat’s bladder, his forehead curving into a round face which dispensed altogether with a chin, instead continuing through a puffy neck straight out into fat teats and belly. There is so much material there, Timble thought. But it won’t do to tease the fellow. I need him. “I wasn’t all that hungry anyway.” He gave the room a curious look. “So this is where they made the poisoned food. I was in the hall during the murder and can’t stop thinking about it. Bloody terrifying.”
The Second Cook was dressed in a tight-fitting hood, overstuffed breeches, and little else. He wiped sweat from his stomach and flung it on to the floor. “We didn’t have naught to do with that, but Duke Lockridge has been pulling us in for questions. I’ve been in three times already.”
“That does sound awful,” Timble said, absently taking up four pomegranates and juggling them. “Why so often? Were you the one that cooked the fillet?”
“It was tenderloins from a reedbuck. And no, Cook made it.” He scowled and rounded on the rest of the kitchen. “Did they give us a holiday and not tell me? Get to bloody work!” He turned back to Timble. “They’ve had Cook in for questions at least half a dozen times. Lockridge’s hearthguard, Maddox, is running things. That’s rich, since it was him that let the poison get by.”
“Sir Maddox was doing the tasting? I didn’t see much — they kept me off to the side while that Jandari bard was wailing.” He threw the pomegranates extra high for a flourish.
The Second Cook put a sweaty arm around Timble, pulling him in close. Overwhelmed by sweat and grease, Timble caught only three of the fruits, using his knee to bounce the last one on to a cutting table. “That’s what I can’t puzzle out,” the man said in a conspiratorial whisper. “We had two hearthguards working – Gladwin and Maddox. They tasted everything we sent for the king.”
Timble glanced up at Second Cook, working to keep his face away from the sweating breasts. “You’re clearly a keen observer. Were there any new servants that night? Did any of the old servants act strangely?”
Rubbery features contracted in thought and then popped back into shape. “Neh. We wouldn’t hire new blood with the king visiting, but we did have some house servants helping out. Never had much faith in house servants. Known to pilfer, they are.”
“Why are you faffing about?” a loud voice demanded. “I left you in charge!”
Second Cook grabbed the back of Timble’s head and pushed him out to arm’s length. “We had a visitor.”
If Second Cook was heavy, the man standing in the entrance was fat enough to shame even a merchant. He wore a leather apron and carried a freshly-butchered pig across his shoulders. Timble thought man and pig resembled each other enough for the whole thing to seem fratricidal.
“No visitors! No food for two bells.” Cook grunted, dumping the pig onto a cutting table. He took up a carving blade and waved it at Timble. “Now get out of here, little man, before I feed you to the stewpot.”
With a quick bow, Timble made his escape, giving the blade a wide berth. Once safely away from the kitchens, he sat on a stack of firewood and considered his next move.
What did he know? Someone had poisoned the duke and tried to kill the king. He knew the hearthguards were on duty that night, yet somehow the poison had gotten past them. And he knew that Tancred the Magus was an unspeakably vile person.
There was only one thing to do.
He hopped up from the bricks, dusted off his bottom, and made a beeline for the King’s Tower. Practically running past the auxiliary stables and the baths, he came to a halt at the tower’s entrance. Six royal guards flanked the doors.
The mood was ugly in Nineacre. Duke Lockridge was exploiting his power as Inquirer to the limit, interrogating servants, soldiers and anyone else he chose. He had even arrested Duke Harlowe’s cupbearer and sent him to Chimkant. Rumors were rife in the castle. From what people said, Lockridge hadn’t discussed any of it with Duke Harlowe, and some even whispered that Lockridge suspected the young duke of poisoning his father, because of a fight they’d had.
Selwyn Harlowe was in a tough spot, from Timble could see, wanting to find the murderer, but also needing to protect his people from the Inquiry. Problem was, any real resistance could lead to civil war. Several fights had broken out already, with three men in the infirmary and a royal soldier missing an ear. The Harlowe soldier who wielded the blade had somehow vanished before Lockridge could arrest him. None of it mattered to Timble – Jandaria could fall into the Abyss, so long as Tancred the bloody Magus went down with it.
“What do you want, runt?” The lead guard stamped the butt of his sparth ax on the cobbles.
“I’ve got information about the murders.”
The soldier eyed his patchwork cloak and coxcomb. “Piss off before I give you over to Maddox for questioning. Be glad I don’t believe you.”
Timble stood his ground, staring up resolutely at the soldier. The others surrounded him, axes ready. “Take me to Maddox then.”
“Sir Maddox is in town. Duke Lockridge is here, but God protect you if you waste his time.”
“He’ll be happy to hear my news. Can I talk to him?”
“Wait here. I’ll ask if His Grace will see you.”
Several minutes passed. Timble considered showing the other guards a coin trick, but after seeing their grim expressions, he opted to stand meekly instead. The lead guard reappeared. “Come along.”
Up the winding stairs they went, past the second floor, which was empty save for clarks scribbling by the fire. The third floor had an antechamber guarded by three more guards. “This is the man who’s come to see His Grace.”
They ushered him in without a word. Icons of the faith hung all around the room. Duke Lockridge sat at a writing desk, fancy as ever in blue silk
s and a cape of brown velvet, watching him stonily. Though Timble had stood before many a duke or king, they were usually drunk and jolly when he did. “Is this a good time, Your Grace?”
“I have a murdered duke, a king under threat, Vyr on the borders, and an insubordinate marcher lord to contend with. Nothing is good about this time. Do you have information on the murders or not?”
“Yes, Your Grace. I believe Tancred the Magus was involved in the killings.”
“What you believe is immaterial. What do you know?”
“The poison that killed the duke was made in Belgorsk.”
Setting aside his quill, Lockridge folded his hands and fixed Timble with a basilisk stare. “And how do you know this?”
“Seen it used, Your Grace.” Timble rocked nervously on his heels. “Haunt’s Bile, they call it. Comes from sacrificing a haunt, and aside from the Vyr lands, the only place those furry bastards live any more is Belgorsk. Recognized it right away, ‘cause I watched Leax use it twice. Amusing stuff.”
“Even if this were true, how would it implicate the magus?”
“Haunt’s Bile is alchemical — it takes a faietouched to make it. Guess who went into the wilds of Belgorsk last fall and then sojourned at Leax’s court?”
Lockridge snatched a piece of vellum from the stack next to him and began taking notes. “I do remember Tancred being gone from court much of last year. Traveling, they said.”
“Traveled right into Leax’s domain. Which is convenient, since the court magician of Belgorsk woke up dead last year. Mayhap he’s looking to take his place?”
After wiping excess ink from the quill, Lockridge wrote in an elegant, flowing hand. “I am not looking for speculation, but facts. The magus is the guardian of our realm and I will not have his name besmirched without cause. What else do you know?”
Heir to the Raven (The Pierced Veil, #1) Page 11