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

by J. Wesley Bush

  Timble shrugged. “I know that someone got poison past your hearthguards. Almost as if by magic.”

  “Tell no one of your suspicions. If Tancred is the assassin, I will not have him warned. If he is innocent, I would protect his reputation.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.” Timble cleared his throat softly. “Before I go, could I offer my services?”

  Quill paused in mid-sentence. Lockridge gave him a bemused look. “I have no need of jongleurs at the moment.”

  “Few can eat on the wages of a wandering player. I’m also a man who keeps his eyes and ears open. Not all fools are fools, Your Grace.”

  Standing from his chair, the duke gave Timble a long, measuring glower. “Spies are low, dishonorable things, and I have no tolerance for them. Creeping, simpering creatures who make their coin defrauding better men than themselves.” He leaned forward, palms on the desk. “In my duchy, we blind spies to keep them from ever watching again, pop their ears to stop their listening, and cut out their wicked tongues.”

  The door’s too heavily guarded, Timble thought. I’ll have to use the window. With luck he could climb the tower and jump into the river before somebody found a crossbow.

  “Because you have provided me a service this day,” Lockridge continued, “honor demands that I let you live. Stay out of my sight, however, or I’ll deliver you over to Sir Maddox.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace,” Timble said, bowing low and as eager to please as a Sargoshi courtesan. Busy thanking God for good fortune, he was down the stairs and out into the courtyard before realizing how much he now hated Duke Lockridge. I may need to kill him. But for the time being, he would settle for fair wages. The information he’d given Lockridge was pure gold, yet his own purse was sadly empty.

  Planning furiously, Timble walked to the mud brick quarters built into the south wall of the castle. His room was a tiny corner of the place and he shared it with two stable hands. Upon coming to Nineacre, he’d bought a locking chest to keep them out of his things. No one was home when he arrived, so he threw open the chest and started changing.

  In place of motley he put on simple auburn garb and covered it with a charcoal cloak. He belted a curving dagger in the small of his back. With hours left until dusk, he took out one of his few remaining coins and started practicing, thoughtlessly flipping it between knuckles and making it disappear. Spying wasn’t turning a profit, so best to keep his jester skills honed.

  Once the sun was down, he took a sap filled with powdered lead and began to pummel himself in the face and neck. One final smack to the eye left him groggy. Hanging the sap at his waist, he drew the dagger and made slices on his cheek and over an eyebrow. They bled perfectly.

  Evening was a crashing bore in the castle and its only diversion was the tiny alehouse permitted by the Harlowes. Timble made his way there, still a bit wobbly in the knees.

  A score of soldiers crowded inside, with more spilling out into the courtyard. None wore the royal colors. The mood was more angry than festive, just as he had expected. Lockridge’s interrogations were raising tempers, and all the raised glasses of ale seemed to be making things worse.

  “Greetings all and sundry,” he said through puffy lips. “Permit a wounded fellow a drink?” The guards standing in the doorway turned and stared down at him. One of them was familiar.

  “Who’d you cross this time, Timble?” asked Joska. “You look like jackal droppings.”

  Timble put a hand on the wall to steady himself. “Lockridge,” he said, blinking as fresh blood trickled into his eye. “Since I was at the feast, they thought I might know something.”

  “Son of a whore!” Joska said, turning to face the room. “Ayi! Ayi! Lockridge just beat our man purple!”

  “Again?” someone called from inside. “Who was it this time?”

  “Timble the Fool, a bloody guest of Duke Harlowe. This breaks every law of hospitality and shites on our lord’s honor!” Angry shouts billowed from the alehouse.

  “What can we do? We can’t touch a duke!”

  A massive guardsman with a braided goatee pushed his way to the front. “Can’t touch Lockridge. But we can send a message through his men!”

  The soldiers cheered and began pouring from the alehouse, nearly sweeping Timble up in the rush. He folded his arms and watched them run to the barracks, emerging soon after with training swords, clubs and a great number of friends. They rounded the central keep, charging the King’s Tower. Servants rushed to join them, some carrying torches, others picking up loose cobbles or bricks. Timble followed at a leisurely pace.

  By the time he arrived, Harlowe’s men were locked in melee with the royal guards. Timble huddled in shadows near the tower entrance until they were fully engaged, and then moved nimbly through the fight. Wearing no colors, he was mostly ignored, but at least one man from each side took a swing at him. Dodging and rolling, he reached the door and ducked inside.

  The ground floor was empty, but he could hear men on the second floor calling for news. He ignored them, searching for the way into the undercroft. Behind a painted dividing screen, he found a wide trapdoor and gave the ring a tug. The hinges were well-oiled and opened easily. He grabbed a burning taper from a nearby wall sconce and descended the steps.

  Bedding and extra furnishings occupied much of the room, while trunks with Lockridge’s sigil took up most of the remaining space. There was also a jumble of hawking cages, broken furniture and bundles of fresh rushes. He looked over the trunks, but there was no sign as to which held the ducal coffers. Shelves lined the walls, stocked with delicacies from the Coast. It made sense — marcher nobles had simple tastes, but a man like Lockridge wanted the finer things.

  Nearly all of it was valuable, but little of it portable. Pickled lampreys would fetch a good price, but it was hard to smuggle a two-gallon jar in your breeches. Then he found just the thing: spice pouches stacked in a cedar box. He gave each of them a sniff and then stuffed the worthiest into pockets lining his cloak. Best was a full pouch of saffron, brought in from across the Beryl Ocean. It was like powdered gold.

  Fighting continued as he left the building, though few of Lockridge’s troops were standing. One of them had a Harlowe man on the ground and was knocking his head into the stones. As he passed, Timble pulled the sap from his belt, batted the soldier unconscious, and slipped the weapon away in one fluid motion. Whistling merrily, he stepped over the fallen guardsman and returned to his quarters.

  He had just hidden the spices away in the eaves of someone else’s room when the godhall bells started ringing and ringing. A soldier moved through the quarters, ordering everyone to the courtyard. Timble took a deep breath. This was the kind of thing that could get a man hung, if it went sour. He set out, giving himself a few extra punches in the face to look extra pathetic.

  CHAPTER 22

  S elwyn was negotiating with a mason to buttress Wicke’s Keep when the shouting began, Harlowe battle cries quickly drowning out the few voices calling King Randolf and Jandaria!

  Reyhan poked his head into the room. “Sounds like the boys are getting into trouble.” He seemed eager to join them.

  Cursing under his breath, Selwyn rose from the chair. “Master Mason, please excuse me,” he said as calmly as possible, before hurrying to the door. He followed Reyhan at a sprint, down the stairs to the foot of the keep.

  Mother intercepted him at the door. “Where are you running?”

  “The men are rioting,” Selwyn answered breathlessly. “We’re going to stop them.”

  She grasped him by the chin and raised it. “A lord must be serenely in control at all times. Never let them see you run.”

  And what would they think to see you treating me like a child? Selwyn shoved the petulant thought aside. “Yes, Mother. Can we go?”

  “Serenely.”

  Selwyn rolled his eyes and exited, finding two guards still watching the keep – he sent one running to the godhall bells and the other to shout for a mustering in the courtyard. Th
en he took his place in the yard, hand resting on the pommel of his falchion, trying for a serene expression despite a pounding heart.

  Harlowe men fighting with the king’s own. That’s bad enough, Selwyn thought. But God help me if Lockridge was harmed – even our allies will desert me.

  Reyhan chuckled. “This is about to get interesting.”

  “They’ll hang you right beside me.”

  “Interesting doesn’t mean good.”

  “Mind your posture, Selwyn,” Mother said as she joined them. “And this is not the time for your foolery, Reyhan.”

  Reyhan scowled but nodded. “Where’s the bloody castellan? He should be handling this.”

  “I sent him off,” Mother replied. “The men need to see Selwyn take charge.”

  It took several minutes, but eventually the din of conflict faded and men rounded the keep and fell into ranks, a few looking the worse for wear. The castle staff assembled to the side. Only once the last soldier was in place did Selwyn speak. “What is the cause of this? Who began this uproar?”

  “It were I, Your Grace.” Joska came forward. “I started the row.”

  “Why in the light of heaven would you do that?”

  The watch captain stepped to Joska’s side. “He was defending Harlowe honor, your Grace.”

  “How so?”

  Before he could answer, the men on the right of the formation shifted and some reached for their weapons. Duke Lockridge marched around the corner at the head of perhaps a tithe of remaining guards. “This is an act of war!” he bellowed, sword in hand. “Your ruffians assaulted the king’s men! No two stones of your castle will stand atop each other when Randolf is finished.”

  So much for serenity. “Those are bold words from an army of a dozen men. If the king does march on us, you’ll be stone dead by then, Lockridge.”

  “Stop!” Mother’s high, proud voice cut through it all. “Selwyn, stop escalating things! And Lockridge, you are too old to strut like a bantam rooster. Now what caused this?”

  “Your men attacked mine, unprovoked!”

  Selwyn began to answer back, but shouts from his men drowned him out. You harmed a guest! Harlowe honor! and Like killin’ a man in the godhall!

  Lockridge clenched his fists and glared at them all. “What guest did I harm? We’ve only questioned Harlowe men.”

  “The fool!”

  Hands pushed the little jester out from the pack of house servants. Selwyn winced in sympathy; the fool was an awful sight, bruised and bloody, and looking imploringly to Selwyn. “Please, Your Grace, don’t let him have me again. I… I told them I don’t know nothing, but they keep hurting me all the same.” His legs gave way and he dropped down to a knee.

  “I did no such thing!”

  “Then who did?” Selwyn demanded. “And why would anyone believe you after the way you’ve treated my men?”

  “It does not matter what you think, boy. The king has given me plenipotentiary authority. I question you – not the other way around.”

  The falchion was halfway out of its scabbard when Mother grabbed his arm. “Selwyn, stop! You’ll lose us everything!”

  “Get out of my castle, Lockridge. Get out before I throw you from the walls.”

  Lockridge paid him no mind, addressing himself to Mother. “Alethea, dear, we’ve known each other for decades. Tell him to surrender for arrest.” He gave Timble and Selwyn contemptuous looks. “A fool can tie a knot that even wise folk cannot untie. Don’t let your son spoil your fortunes like this.”

  Mother could have been a statue. “You violated the canon of hospitality. The duke has spoken, Lockridge. Best be on your way.”

  “I give you until morning,” Selwyn said, trying to keep his voice from cracking with emotion. “Any of your wounded too weak to travel are welcome in our infirmary. I will ensure their safety, but the same can’t be said for any able-bodied man I catch here after the eighth hour. Please inform His Majesty that royal troops are banned from the March until he and I reach an understanding.”

  Lockridge gave a smug look but said nothing more. Motioning for his guards to follow, he tramped back to the King’s Tower.

  Once the man was gone, Selwyn turned to the garrison. He had no idea what to say, so just spoke the words his father would have used. “In the March, we still remember the sacred rights of guests, even if pampered, eastern dogs like Lockridge have forgotten. Thank you for guarding our honor!” The men cheered. “And double rations for everyone tomorrow.” The cheering grew still louder.

  On the way up the stairs, Selwyn could feel the heat of Mother’s eyes like torch flames. Once they reached his chamber, she sent Reyhan away and then turned in a fury. “You pillock! Do you realize what you’ve done?”

  “I defended our honor.” It sounded empty even to his own ears.

  “You had Lockridge exactly where you wanted him. We could have petitioned the king, had him thrown out for violating hospitality. Randolf’s hand would have been forced. Instead, Lockridge gets to play the victim and the king is likely to march against us.”

  Anger drained from Selwyn in an instant, and his heart quailed. “Even while the Vyr raid our borders and King Leax may be coming.”

  “Now you think of consequences? You may have lost in an instant what two centuries of your forefathers built. Consider that next time you open your mouth.”

  His lips felt cemented shut, so he merely nodded.

  CHAPTER 23

  A ddison had spent days in the public room of the Red Leaf in Tethmere, but while half a dozen infantry companies passed through the city, he saw no heavy cavalry. In the meantime, he gleaned all he could from the chatter in the room, though it was more chaff than wheat.

  “Duke Harlowe was murdered by his own son,” one geezer swore. “And Jandaria is plunged into civil war.” “Dweorgs passed through on the way to Belgorsk,” said another. His friend agreed, “Priest-King Leax is probably adding them to his freak stable.” The barman shouted across to them, “My wife o’erheard Lady Swan in the market saying Leax is already marching.”

  It required an effort of will not to correct the nonsense, but Addison managed. He was chasing the yolks of his eggs with a crust of hard bread when Quick Tom peeked in through a window. After glancing nervously at the bar, he motioned for Addison. “Free riders are camped just beyond the Chandler Gate.”

  Addison wiped his mouth with a rag. “Did you see their banner?”

  “Aye. A red sun with a letter in the middle. It looked like this.” He drew in the air with a finger.

  “Paldrick’s Heavy Horse.” Addison stood and called for the innkeep. “I’ll be leaving now,” he told her. “Give me a moment to gather my things and we’ll square accounts. Please have your boy bring my horse to the street.”

  He returned to the shop for his armor. It was ready when he arrived, though the paint on his shield was still drying. Quick Tom ran breathlessly next to his horse all the way to the city gate. As they reached it, Addison saw an armed camp just outside.

  “Did I do good?” Tom asked, the hand rising inevitably once more.

  “Indeed! I wish you all the best.” Addison gave five more coppers and rode for the camp. It was orderly, by free company standards, with tents in neat rows and latrines dug outside the perimeter.

  “Hold up now,” a picket challenged him. “Who approaches the men of Paldrick?”

  It took him a moment to respond. “Sir Conred of Silverton,” he said, wincing inwardly at the lie.

  “Are you certain of that now?” the picket asked with amusement, though he didn’t wait for an answer. “Looking to sign up then? You aren’t the first today. Every lad with a horse wants to go to war.” He motioned for his mate to keep watch and led Addison into the camp. Once Intrepid was hobbled, they went to see Paldrick himself. Addison knew him by reputation, and while no mercenary was truly honorable, Paldrick came closer than most.

  “Captain Paldrick, allow me to present Sir Conred of Silverton,” the sentry s
aid with mock grandeur, ushering him into the tent.

  “I’ve met more than one refugee knight from Silverton these past few years,” Paldrick said, rising from his stool. He was a squat, solid man, with a shaved chin and enormous sideburns perched on his cheeks like twin ferrets. “That revolution was a bad business.”

  “I was sad to leave,” Addison said. “Though I’ve heard Belgorsk is pleasant this time of year.”

  Paldrick laughed and motioned to the other stool. “Have you ridden with a free company before? Your name is unknown to me, sir.”

  The next lie came more easily to Addison. “Aye, with Yantel’s Lancers, on both sides of the Manticore War. I also rode against the desert tribes with the Keferi Auxiliaries. Lord Senai Brehan knighted me on the field after an engagement against the nomads.”

  “Your speech is gently-born. I do know the name of Brehan, and we have need of a knight. Lost Sir Quenton crossing the Washford. We’ll take you on for a month.” Paldrick opened a burled wooden box and took out a contract. He passed it to Addison, along with a quill. “Prove useful and I’ll enlist you for the duration.”

  “The duration of what?” Addison signed the contract with his alias’s name.

  Paldrick’s smile turned crafty. “Didn’t you hear? We’re going to take Jandaria. Spoils aplenty, if a man proves useful.”

  A footman led Addison to his lodgings. “One lance to a tent,” the man explained on the way. “Three men to a lance — a serjeant and a groom, led by either a senior serjeant or a knight. Course, the knight gets half the tent.”

  “Three-man lances? Most companies use four.”

  The guard shrugged. “Old Paldrick favors the charge. More charging means more mount changes, and one groom can only hold so many horses. Speaking of which, I only saw you come in with the one. Paldrick will rent you relief mounts. Comes out of the wages.” He pulled aside the tent flap and called to the inhabitants. “Serjeant Furtick, young Brinley, greet your new lance leader, Sir Conred of Silverton.”